What Must Be Done
by MsBarrows
Summary: A series of loosely connected scenes exploring Loghain's viewpoint of the events of DA:O, from shortly pre-Ostagar until his death.
1. Memories

It would have seemed like just a pleasant day's ride out in the countryside, if not for where they were, where they were going, and the army trudging along in back of them. It was a fine autumn day, the sky clear and blue, marked only off to the west, in the direction of Lake Calenhad, with a scattering of high white clouds. Just slightly on the cool side, with a gentle breeze, perfect travelling weather.

He looked around, breathing in deeply, revelling in the old familiar scents that even now, after all these years spent elsewhere in Ferelden, spoke to some deep inner part of himself and said _home_. He felt some inner knot of tension unravelling, as he drank in the achingly familiar sights. Lothering, he knew, lay over the hills off to the northwest – they would not see it today, as he judged it better to skirt the small town rather then marching the army through it; it would be less damaging to the surrounding farms, and less distraction and temptation for the soldiers.

Somewhere to the north of them now was the small farm where he had been born and raised. He wondered if it was still there, if anyone worked the land that had belong to his father's family for so many generations, or if the wilds had long since reclaimed the fields. If he turned his horse and rode there now, would the house still stand, or would it be a ruin of old wood and stone, matching the ruin the Orlesians had made of the family that had once lived there?

No. He would not remember those last terrible days of that long-vanished life. If he must remember anything of the farm, let it be the good memories, of working at his father's side in the fields, of coming home to his mother, smiling at them in welcome from where she stood by the fire, cooking their evening meal. For a moment he could almost smell the bread baking, taste again on his tongue the exact flavour of the lamb stew, thick with chunks of root vegetables and fresh green peas and herbs from the small garden near the back door...

"Teryn Loghain," a voice broke in on his thoughts, dispelling the ghost of sensory memory.

"Yes, Ser Cauthrien?" he asked, glancing over to the woman as she rode at his side.

"Do you mind if I go join one of the scouting patrols? I'd like to have a better feel for the lay of the land."

"Of course," he said. "Go ahead; we shouldn't have anything more exciting to expect out of today then another long dull day of travel, anyway. Seek me out in camp this evening, I may have some tasks for you by then."

"Of course, my lord," she said, dipping her head in the greatly abbreviated bow he favoured, and dropped back.

He drew a deep breath, looking around and making sure all his charges were where they should be. Prince Cailan rode several lengths ahead of him, one of those damnable Grey Wardens at his side, the boy smiling and then laughing as he talked. Doubtless retailing yet another lengthy story of the Wardens and their fabled prowess in battle. Several other of the boy's – no, he reminded himself sternly, the _young man's_ – favoured companions rode near him as well, also listening attentively to the Warden's words. Ser Landry, Thomas Howe, Ser Garlan, a handful of others... he should probably move up and ride near the prince as well, but they were all so blasted _young_. And _enthusiastic_.

He eyed the prince, frowning. He looked so very much like his father, it never ceased to disturb Loghain. Especially now, especially here. They were only an hour or two east of the forested lands where Loghain had first encountered 'Hyram', fleeing from Bann Ceorlic's men, pale and shaken and bloody from having killed one of them while escaping after seeing them treacherously cut down Queen Moira. Maric had beaten the man's head in against a tree root, as Loghain recalled – though it had been years later before he'd ever actually heard about _that_ detail of the story, something Maric told him when they'd both been far gone in drink and reminiscence after the death of Queen Rowan. And yet for all that he'd just gone through, Maric had still seemed so damnably young and _innocent_. He'd actually thought Maric younger then himself when they first met, been astonished to later learn he was in fact a year and a half older.

He glanced again in Cailan's direction, tried to imagine the golden prince in his father's place. Would he have had the fortitude to do as his father had done, to beat a man to death with his own hands in order to secure his escape? He doubted it. For all his seeming innocence, Maric had always had a streak of pragmatic determination at his core, legacy of his famed mother and his years at her side in the rebel camps. Cailan was... softer, seeming to have inherited little from Maric and Rowan save the Theirin looks from Maric and Rowan's determination to enjoy whatever life chanced to offer her. Maybe it was just that Maric had coddled the boy so much. He'd wanted his son to have the life that his own youth in the rebel camps had denied him. And after Rowan's death, he'd abdicated all responsibility for several years – responsibility for the kingdom, responsibility for his grieving young son.

And Loghain had done what he'd always seemed to end up doing; stepped in, picked up the reins, and kept things lurching along until Maric was able and ready to resume control.

"_Loghain, I want your word that you will protect the prince._" Almost his father's last words to him. His very last had been "_Give me one minute. Then run._" And then he'd gone out, into the rain and darkness, and bought them the precious time needed for Loghain and Maric to escape the outlaw encampment, as it was overrun and decimated by Orlesian soldiers. For a moment his throat closed at the memory of his last sight of his father, a distant blood-streaked figure surrounded by dozens of soldiers. The smoke and rain had hidden his final moment, thought his last defiant cry rang in Loghain's ears even now, across all the years between. Strange to think that he was years older now then his father had been then.

Unerringly his eyes turned to the southeast, where a distant hilltop reared out of the surrounding forest. There. That was where the outlaws had been encamped, and had died in droves as he did what his father commanded. He'd protected the prince, leading him off into the wilds, leaving his father behind. There was where Sister Ailis had later scattered the ashes of Gareth Mac Tir, and so many others.

He'd hated young Maric so much back then, as they fled into the stormy wilds and an uncertain future. He had never imagined, would never have believed, how much he later came to like – _love_ – the damnable man. He'd spent his life fulfilling his oath to his father. _Protect the prince_. Protect him from his enemies, from the stupidity of others, from his own foolishness more then once. _Protect the prince_. He'd done it, and kept on doing it, until his prince, his king, finally went where he could no long protect him. And died, lost at sea, leaving not even a corpse for those who loved him to grieve over and burn.

And he'd somehow carried on after that, protecting what had been important to Maric; his son, his people, his kingdom.

He forced his attention back to the present, looking again toward the prince. The _king_, he reminded himself. King Cailan, a young man, his son-in-law – not Prince Cailan, not a boy any longer, not for years now. He never failed to address him properly aloud, but inside, in his heart of hearts, there was only ever one person who could possibly be king.

* * *

><p>They were making camp for the night when Ser Cauthrien returned, bringing word that she and her scouting party had encountered the Cousland forces, and that they were only an hour or two away from joining the rest of the army. Loghain was pleased at the news, and sent her off to make sure that a section of camp was set aside for them.<p>

The army had grown to a respectable size already, and with more troops due to join them between here and Ostagar, it should be a considerable force by the time they were settled in place. He just hoped this didn't prove to be a useless exercise; so far they'd seen very little sign of darkspawn, and certainly no blighted lands. They only had Duncan's word and a few corpses to prove that there even _were_ darkspawn about somewhere. It would be annoying if this proved to be a false alarm, just a handful of darkspawn emerging from some forgotten entrance to the Deep Roads.

Still, it provided an excuse to get Pri... _King_ Cailan and the army out in the field, and test how well the lords answered to the muster. That was all to the good; it had been less then thirty years since they'd kicked the Orlesians out of Ferelden, after all, and Orlais still acted as if it regarded this country as little more then a rebellious province, to be reclaimed at the convenience of the Queen and her chevaliers.

Only over his cold, rotting corpse would they ever set toe on Fereldan soil again.

The king's ornate tent had already been raised, and even from his own smaller and more sober field quarters he could hear the sounds of Cailan and his young noble friends, already singing along to lute music and undoubtedly drinking heavily as well. They could likely hear the raised voices all the way back to Lothering. Hardly a proper way to move through the field. He made note to speak to the king about it tomorrow – preferably early in the morning, when he'd still have a throbbing head reminding him of one of the several _other_ reasons that such carousing was unwise.

For now he spread out and studied his maps of Ostagar and the surrounding lands, soon loosing himself in making notes on a separate sheet of parchment about troop deployments and fortifications.


	2. Regrets

Loghain lay on his cot, listening to the sounds of the camp stirring to life outside. He should rise and begin his own morning preparations, but for once he was satisfied to just lie back and think for a while, rather then getting up and getting on with things.

The week since they'd arrived at Ostagar had been a busy time for him; organizing the camp, overseeing the location and construction or repair of fortifications, integrating all the different units as various and sundry lords both minor and major arrived with their men-at-arms in tow. It was like herding cats. Herding cats with entirely too many intact toms in the mix, at that. Some days he wished he could bang the heads of certain lords together and remind them that their miner squabbles were _not _what they were gathered here to resolve.

At least that was one area in which Cailan seemed to have talent, though Loghain did wish the boy would intervene _before_ Loghain was feeling ready to commence mayhem. He had a nasty suspicion that seeing him get angered _amused_ his son-in-law. It would certainly explain – at least in part – his tendency towards rash decisions. There wasn't a day that had gone by yet when Cailan hadn't, at one point or another, engaged in actions that were anything but calculated to soothe Loghain's qualms over Cailan's putative leadership of the army.

Cailan had disappeared entirely their second day here, resulting in a considerable uproar when he couldn't be located, only to reappear late that afternoon, having apparently gone out on patrol with a group of scouts. Loghain had giving him a stern dressing-down about that little escapade in the privacy of the king's tent, then made sure to assign him guards who wouldn't be foolish enough to let him slip away unnoticed after that. Which Cailan had, naturally, complained bitterly about and spent most of the third and fourth day trying to lose, with no success, when he wasn't off plaguing the wardens, carousing – with slightly more decorum then previously – with his noble friends, or exploring the ruins and the prospective battlefield down below.

There had been several minor skirmishes with small groups of darkspawn over the first few days, but no sign of the larger groups that the wardens claimed were building up in the wilds south of Ostagar. As patrol after patrol went out and returned with stories of nothing worse then sucking bogs, patches of fog, and hungry wildlife, Loghain had suspected more and more that this entire venture was a wild goose chase.

And then yesterday they'd had their first encounter with a sizable force of darkspawn, a band close to a hundred strong that had somehow escaped notice until they were almost within sight of Ostagar. It had been one of the Grey Wardens who'd given warning of their approach, rather then one of the patrols or outer pickets as it should have been, which had only further aggravated Loghain's temper. And then, to make it even worse, Cailan had rushed down to the battlefield to engage in the fight, wanting a chance at glory. Wanting a chance at an early death was more like it; the boy had never been in a real battle before. If he had been, things like "glory" would no longer consume so much of his mind. Things like "survival" might.

Thankfully the Grey Wardens had already killed a sizable chunk of the darkspawn before Cailan even made it down the ramps to ground level – Loghain did have to admit they were superbly skilled fighters, if nothing else – and equally thankfully he'd been spotted and surrounded by a unit of Loghain's own soldiers before he could get anywhere near the darkspawn himself. Which he'd later complained bitterly about to Loghain, of course. But better an irate king then a blight-poisoned one. Loghain had insisted on taking him by the infirmary after that – not the main one where simple wounds and fractures were treated, but the other one, where those who'd come in overly intimate contact with darkspawn blood and offal were carefully watched for any sign of being blighted and... _helped_... if they needed to die.

At least that had shut the boy up for a while. Unfortunately Cailan was nothing if not convinced of his own immortality, and Loghain little doubted that he'd soon be plotting a return to the battlefield regardless of possible consequences. He could never be sure if he was more proud of or aggravated by the lad's independence. On the one hand it was very like his parents, and a good kingly quality, that he let no one tell him his mind. On the other hand he could be such a stubborn ass at times, ignoring advice he'd be far better off following, and was even less careful about his own personal safety then Maric had ever been. In some ways he was the best of Maric and Rowan writ large, in others... well, for all he was twenty-five, he more often acted fifteen, and still regularly put Loghain in mind of a rambunctious puppy that was still growing into the size of its teeth and paws. Maker allow that he _would_ have the time to grow into them before he allowed those self-same paws to carry him into real trouble. And until then it was Loghain's sorry task to do his best to keep the king's sudden enthusiasms on a leash.

It would help, too, if Cailan would settle down to the serious task of making lots of little Theirin babies. At this point Loghain would feel relieved if he even threw a bastard, much less fathered a legitimate heir on Anora. Five years of marriage for the pair and not even a false alarm. People were starting to talk. There'd been far too many generations of the Theirin bloodline now with only a single heir – or at least, only a single _recognized_ one – and it would be a great relief to everyone if Cailan would father a few children and remove the fear that his death would end the Theirin line.

At least Maric _had_ fathered bastards. Well, _a_ bastard, certainly, though there had been a couple of other children that may well have sprung from Theirin rootstock. Maric had never been particularly adept at keeping it in his pants when a pretty girl was willing.

Maric had told him about the bastard one night while they were drinking – he'd always had a tendency to blurt things out to Loghain when they were in their cups. Thankfully _not _a tendency he ever indulged in when any others were around, but he'd always trusted Loghain with his secrets. Loghain had, naturally, started keeping a discrete watch on the child after that. He didn't think much of the way Arl Eamon had treated the boy, but then he'd never thought much of Arl Eamon. Whatever had possessed Maric to entrust _him_ with the secret of the boy's fathering and with his raising! Some misplaced loyalty to Rowan's family, seemingly. It would have been far better to either foster him out to some unconnected family of minor nobles with his parentage kept entirely secret, or to have openly recognized him and seen him properly raised as befitted a king's bastard. This muddled neither-one-nor-the-other decision of Maric's had done neither of them any benefit, and in Loghain's admittedly biased opinion had ruined the boy.

Unfortunately it had already been years too late by the time Maric confessed his indiscretion for anything productive to be done to change it, so Loghain had supported the idea of continued secrecy about the bastard. The secret had eventually become the worst-kept secret in Ferelden, after Eamon shuffled the boy off to the Denerim chantry, of all places, and he grew up looking the spitting image of Maric and Cailan in a city where pretty much everyone was intimately familiar with how the royal father and son looked.

Something really should have been done about the lad at that point, but then Maric had left on that ill-fated voyage and things had gone to hell for all too many years, Loghain far too busy keeping Cailan secure on his tottering throne to worry about the bastard. He'd more then half-forgotten the boy until Duncan had shown up half a year ago, a shockingly familiar-looking youth trailing in his wake. The damned man had _conscripted_ Maric's son! Finding out it had been done at pretty much the eleventh hour of him being forced into templar vows had only slightly ameliorated Loghain's disgust with the man, and greatly increased his disgust with both Arl Eamon and the Revered Mother. Maric's son becoming a Grey Warden was disgusting enough, Maric's son becoming a chantry-controlled lyrium-addled templar was... a perversion.

And here they were, six months later, one big happy family crammed into close proximity in Ostagar, all three of them carefully pretending that Alistair's parentage was still a secret. It would have almost been funny, seeing the two young men eyeing each other whenever they thought the other wasn't looking, if it hadn't been so painfully sad. Sad for them, and painful for Loghain, haunted by not one but two spectres of young Maric. They looked so much like him, and were at the same time so entirely unlike him. It was like being carved on with knives every time he spotted one of them unexpectedly, that familiar rise in his heart at spotting Maric, followed immediately by the crashing disappointment of recognition. Maric was dead, long years dead. He would never see Maric again, not in this life. But the heart never stopped hoping for one last glimpse of that familiar shining smile, to hear once again that approving voice.

He could understand why mabari sickened and died when their person died.

Blast. More then past time to get up and get dressed. He was getting maudlin.


	3. Council

It said something about how far Cailan was taking his pursuit of glory in battle when Loghain was actually _relieved_ at the news that Duncan had passed the outer pickets and would be in camp within the hour. Perhaps the Warden-Commander could talk some sense into the boy, convince him of the rashness of his latest plans, which involved Cailan and the Grey Wardens in the vanguard against the major attack that everyone was now sure was coming some time in the next few days.

There'd been several other large attacks since the first one, as well as the patrols encountering smaller groups in the wilderness south of Ostagar; a few patrols had been decimated, one disappeared to a man. There was definitely something nasty stirring here, though whether or not it was truly a blight and not just a sizable outbreak of darkspawn was unsure. There had as of yet been no sign of an actual archdemon.

Almost as aggravating as Cailan's plans to throw himself in the way of danger, were his increasingly outlandish attempts at independent command of the army, and the usually ill-considered changes he kept wanting to make to the plans that had been drawn up and agreed upon before their departure from the capital. It was only by chance that Loghain had even learned of the invitation that Cailan had extended to the Orlesian wardens to join them in combating the darkspawn. They and their escort were due to arrive at the border within days; Loghain had little doubt that said escort would be a sizable force of chevaliers, an army far outnumbering whatever wardens they accompanied, and that removing them from Ferelden soil once they'd been allowed to set foot on it again would be a monumental task. He'd already sent his fastest couriers to the border, with firmly worded orders that the wardens from Orlais were to be forbidden entry. He'd considered allowing the wardens entry and merely refusing their escort, but then decided he wouldn't put it past Orlais to have the wardens conscript the lot of them and claim them all of them as wardens in the name of crossing the border. No, better to leave no loopholes at all.

There was a light tapping on the canvas flap of the tent, then Cauthrien ducked inside, a look of grave concern on her face, a dispatch in her hand.

"Yes, Ser Cauthrien?" he asked.

"Word from the north – I thought it best you saw this immediately," she said, and handed over the scroll. He quickly scanned down it, brows beetling in anger as the words sank in. "What! How _dare_ he...!" he exploded.

"I suppose Howe thought he'd get away with it, with Fergus Cousland and the Highever forces here in the south," she said calmly. "If the youngest Cousland hadn't managed to escape the mess, we might well have heard nothing more then that they'd been wiped out in an attack by unnamed forces, and that he had taken control of the castle in their absence."

"Where is Fergus now?" he said sharply, turning to check the large map spread out on a table nearby, marked with counters showing the disposition of all the forces. A glance at the current position of the laurel-marked counter reminded him. "Damnation – he left on a lengthy scouting patrol yesterday, didn't he. Well, at least he's far away from where any men of Howe's might attempt to do him in as well, assuming any are here; they were supposedly delayed, weren't they? If any do happen to arrive, see them locked up."

"Yes, ser," Cauthrien said. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, that is all. I'd best bring the news to Cailan – the Couslands are his closest cousins, and he's well acquainted with the family. He'll need to hear of Howe's treachery."

Cauthrien nodded. "I believe he's gone over to greet Duncan – I passed him on the bridge on the way here."

Loghain sighed. "I suppose I'd best wait for him to return then. Thank you, Ser Cauthrien."

"Yes, ser," she said, and departed.

He stood looking at the map for a while, frowning, then walked out and waited at the near end of the bridge, until he saw a cheerful-looking Cailan approach, his two guards trailing along in his wake.

"Teryn Loghain – don't tell me there's something we need to discuss _now?_" he asked, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I had planned to spend the afternoon relaxing in my tent with friends."

"I'm afraid there is something we need to discuss, my king. News from the north that cannot wait," he said softly.

Cailan stilled, raised one eyebrow enquiringly, jarred out of his elated mood by the seriousness of Loghain's response. "News from the north? What is it?"

"Something best spoken of privately first, your majesty."

Cailan nodded, drew himself up, all business for once. "All right. My tent? Or yours?"

"Yours will do."

Cailan nodded, and led the way.

* * *

><p>It was late in the day before Loghain finally had a moment free to seek out the Warden-Commander. He spotted him standing talking to his three recruits, Alistair looming at his elbow. The knight and the cut-purse Loghain was already aware of, so the dwarf with the ridiculously coloured hair must be the newest addition. Judging by his light armour and dual weapons, another thief. Hopefully one either more restrained or more talented then the cut-purse, who'd already had to be spoken to several times about the concept of property, and how it applied to the contents of other people's purses and pockets and kitbags.<p>

Duncan dismissed the group, and they headed off with Alistair, trailing in the human's wake like ducklings after their mother, in the direction of the camp gate.

"Warden-Commander," Loghain said, stepping nearer.

"Teryn Loghain," Duncan said neutrally, giving him a wary look. Over the years the two of them had learned to work together when they had to, but it had never been easy for them; too much history of distrust and dislike between the two.

"I was wondering if I might have a word with you?" Loghain asked, and indicated his tent.

Duncan frowned, and moved a step closer, dropping his voice. "If it's about Cailan's battle plan, save your breath – he won't listen to me on the subject either. He's determined to be in the forefront of battle."

Loghain scowled. "He seems to think that the warden immunity to taint is something he can absorb just by proximity," he said caustically. "I hope you have done nothing to encourage that..."

"No! Of course not!" Duncan said, with just enough genuine horror in his voice for Loghain to find himself believing him. "Frankly I dislike this plan of his, but if he's determined to be in the front ranks, then better he be surrounded by wardens then regular soldiers."

Loghain grunted at that. He could hardly disagree with that point, not after having seen the wardens in action several times now. For all the smallness of their numbers, they were a formidable force; he would not have wanted to go against them without at least a fivefold advantage of hand-picked troops, and even then wouldn't feel sanguine about victory unless the numbers were ten to one or better. To a man, they were preternaturally tough and fast. Seeing them cutting into oncoming darkspawn never failed to remind him of a log meeting one of the water-driven multi-bladed saws in the Gwaren planking mills; the log invariably lost.

There being nothing else to be said on the subject, he returned to his tent and his work.

* * *

><p>"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!" Loghain grated out, and knew even as the words left his lips that it had been the worst possible thing he could say. Cailan was never going to listen to him now.<p>

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Cailan said coldly, and turned to the two wardens standing nearby, both looking uncomfortable with having been witness to the dispute between the two. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty," Duncan affirmed.

"And this is the recruit I met earlier on the road? I understand congratulations are in order."

The dwarf flicked a look at Duncan before replying. "I don't feel that special."

"Oh, but you are. Every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever," Cailan enthused.

"Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality," Loghain interrupted, wondering once again what the rawest recruit in the entire army was even doing at the war council. More of Cailan's foolishness, he had little doubt.

"Fine. Speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then...?" Cailan demanded.

Loghain momentarily gritted his teeth. Three days of argument from both Duncan and himself had still failed to dissuade the pri... the king from insisting on his foolish plan. "You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signalling my men to charge from cover," he grated out.

It quickly became apparent why the king had wished the dwarf here; he wished to assign him and Alistair to back up Loghain's men in the tower, and ensure the beacon was lit when it should be. While he couldn't fault the king for taking steps to doubly assure that the signal would be conveyed at the right moment, he couldn't help feeling that Cailan's main goal was to see to it that his bastard brother was safely away from the worst of the fighting. And he couldn't even entirely fault that, either; for all that Alistair had never been acknowledged by Maric or Cailan, if something _did _happen to Cailan it at least meant the bastard had some chance of surviving the debacle, and carrying on the Theirin line. Which if anything further aggravated Loghain; the boy was willing to make plans in case of his accidental demise, yet not change his plans to prevent it! Ludicrous!

"Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!" Cailan announced rapturously some little while later.

Loghain winced, soothed not at all by glimpsing a similar expression briefly cross Duncan's face before the warden schooled it to his usual neutral expression. The dwarf was giving Cailan a look as if he doubted the young king's sanity. Loghain wished he had the freedom to do the same. "Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all," he snarled as he turned and stalked angrily away.

The boy was going to be the death of him, at this rate. Please the Maker, let things actually go as planned, and his foolish vainglory result in a 'glorious moment' for them all.


	4. Debacle

Loghain climbed the rise that hid the flanking forces from the view of the battlefield, Ser Cauthrien by his side, the two of them taking position where their forms were camouflaged by undergrowth in front of them, backed by clusters of trees that would prevent them from forming a recognizable silhouette against the still-darkening sky. They settled down to wait, watching for the battle to begin.

A mutter of thunder drew Loghain's eyes to the skies. Clouds had been rolling in all day; as the daylight faded towards evening, it had become obvious that a thunderstorm was moving in. Sweeping in along the towering mountains as it was, it would have had a certain degree of majestic beauty, if not for the fact that it appeared likely to arrive here at roughly the same time the advancing darkspawn were expected. Bad enough that the pace they were approaching at made it a nighttime fight – unlike human enemies, darkspawn would not stop and wait the night to attack the next morning – but it was going to be a nighttime fight in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. Doubtless the battlefield would be churned into slick, treacherous mud within minutes. Loghain had ordered bonfires and torches scattered and lit around the edges of the battlefield so it wouldn't be a completely darkened morass, but he had faint hope that those would last long if the rain was at all heavy.

He spotted movement at the forest's edge, and squinted, grunting as he recognized the forms gathering there; squat genlocks, the most common and smallest of the several forms the spawn were known to take, mixed in with the taller, more human-like hurlocks. "And there they are," he said quietly.

For several minutes nothing happened, other then more and more of the darkspawn advancing out of the trees and stopping, forming dark clusters and clots of seething movement along the shadowed eaves of the forest. Loghain frowned. That was unexpected; normally the creatures would have charged forward blindly by now, in dribs and drabs, their lack of co-ordination in battle rendering them easy prey for more disciplined soldiers. Several hurlocks wearing massive horned helmets emerged from the forest as well. They spread out along the growing battlefront, and Loghain felt a chill enter his stomach. The damned things were _waiting_, while they sorted themselves out for a massed attack. That displayed a level of intelligent action that had been entirely missing in all their previous encounters with the darkspawn.

Thank the Maker that he'd insisted that they plan for not just the worst attack they could conceive of, but the worst attack doubled. The creatures' eery co-ordination would do them little good in the end.

"Is that..." Ser Cauthrien gasped. He glanced at her, then followed where her eyes were looking, to where a cluster of massive forms were pushing out of the forest, bodily forcing aside small saplings and trees.

"Yes, ogres," Loghain said, then pursed his lips. Those could be a problem. He just hoped the rain would hold off long enough for the ballistae to be brought to bear on the hulking brutes; they were as dangerous as siege engines themselves, and would wreck havoc on the battlefield if they got loose among the foot soldiers. And unlike ballistae, a good wetting didn't make them lose the spring in their arms.

Even as he watched, one of the creatures lifted an entire small tree, wound up, and threw it spinning through the air, its fearsome flight lit in all too vivid detail by a well-timed strike of lightning. He winced as it came to earth, tearing a sizable furrow in the grass, all too easily imaging the damage the tree would have done scything through a group of soldiers.

The darkspawn began a slow advance across the meadow toward the lines of defenders in the pass underneath the ruins of Ostagar, more and more of them oozing out of the trees and spreading out, a dark stain across the land. One of the horn-helmed hurlocks raised a hand, made some guttural cry. Behind it, scattered genlocks raised sticks – no, torches, though he couldn't see how they'd been lit. As torches near the front flared to light, more distant ones were also raised and lit, the flicking light spreading out and back, gradually illuminating the horde. The wave of growing light didn't stop at the forest's edge, but continued back into the trees, back and yet further back. As if that had been a signal to the gathering storm, rain began to fall, cold and heavy.

"Andraste's arse!" he snarled, as the extent of the lighted area became clear.

"Maker!" Ser Cauthrien gasped.

Whatever their worst estimate of approaching numbers had been, it had been far too low, judging by the spread of torchlight through the forested valley south of Ostagar. He could only hope that the darkspawn were nowhere near as densely packed back under the trees as they were in the open meadow.

The darkspawn continued their advance toward the waiting defenders, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed until they were running flat out, the pounding of their feet and unintelligible battle cries audible even from here.

Loghain and Cauthrien were too far away to hear the orders being barked on the battlefield, but even through obsuring rain the arrow storm from the waiting defenders was clearly visible, a darkness in the air, sparkling with the fire-bright points of flaming arrows. Loghain frowned as the rain intensified, turning from heavy to torrential, sheets of it occasionally occluding his view of the battle. With the rain coming down as heavily as this, the archers would be lucky to get off a second flight before bow strings were too dampened to use, and the ballistae would only be good for one hurriedly-aimed shot once their protective leather covers were removed. A large chunk of their offensive power was being nullified by the storm, and those ogres were definitely going to be a problem with only hand-arms to bring to bear on them.

He saw the release of the mabari, the hounds streaking forward to attack the oncoming horde. The darkspawn advance only briefly slowed, the mabari disappearing into the oncoming flood of bodies with barely a sign of their impact. And then the charge must have been called, as the defenders flooded forward to meet the oncoming darkspawn.

Loghain scanned the battlefield, judging the course of the battle, eyes darting regularly to the tower looming over the ruins far above. There were more darkspawn on the field then had been expected, but the surge out of the trees had slowed to a trickle, the further torches remaining stationary; were the darkspawn perhaps intelligent enough to have lit extra torches, to magnify the real extent of their forces? A frightening thought, but if they were it at least meant that the force now on the field was all there truly was to deal with. Worse then they'd planned for in even their worst-case scenarios, but... they could still win this, if the defenders held, if the flanking attack was called for before the mass of darkspawn could push the defenders too far back into the pass.

He scowled unhappily, cursing that he'd agreed to this foolishness with the beacon and the tower. He should have insisted that the decision of when to charge be left up to him, but Cailan had argued – rightly, to some degree, especially in light of the obscuring rainfall – that his view of the battle would be incomplete, while watchers in the ruins above could more accurately judge the overall course of the battle and signal for the flare to be lit at the opportune moment. Still, as long minutes dragged by, and the defenders were pressed back to their original lines, then further back again, he began to chew his lip and fret.

Now, now, _now_ was the time to charge, his every instinct screamed at him. _Now_, while the darkspawn where compacted against the plug of bodies and weapons the defending forces had formed across the front of the pass, the meadow largely empty behind them. If the charge was called now, they'd impact the unguarded flank and rear of the darkspawn horde like a hammer, and smash them against the anvil of Cailan's forces. He considered ordering the charge even without the beacon having been lit, but – Cailan had forced a promise from him, in front of witnesses, to stick to the battle plans as agreed upon at the council, and he _could not _undercut the boy's growing assumption of his proper authority by defying him so openly. Not after so many years of labouring to get him to begin acting like the leader he should be, that Maric had already been for years by Cailan's age.

Long minutes passed, broken only by the flashes of lightning, the deafening roars of thunder, the muted sounds of the distant battle. Loghain felt an ache in his hands, realized he had been clenching his hands so tightly he'd have been driving his nails into his own flesh if not for the encumbering gauntlets. He tossed his head, shaking rain-soaked hair back from his face, raised his eyes again to the tower. _Still_ no flames! By the Maker's prick, what was taking them so long!

He heard a muttered curse from Cauthrien, turned his attention back to the battlefield in time to see the defending line bending, bowing as the middle was pushed back by the surge of darkspawn. He loosed a string of curses himself. While the line held the smaller defending force had an advantage, as only a relatively small number of the darkspawn could come in contact with them. If the horde managed to break through, that advantage would vanish, and the narrow pass would become a slaughtering ground. The line needed to straighten itself, not bend... he heaved a sigh of relief as the two ends dropped back as well, retreating marginally into the pass and reinforcing the centre again. Someone over there was on the ball.

Another look at the tower. Still no flame. He stared for long minutes, _willing_ the fire to be lit. Surely, _surely_ it should have been lit by now! This endless waiting was _intolerable...!_

There! A flicker – was it the beacon? _Yes_, he exulted, as an explosion of flames spurted out of the arched openings at the uppermost point of the tower. Heard a roar of anticipation from the men gathered down the hill behind him.

He quickly turned back to the battlefield, ready to order the charge... and froze. In the minutes he'd spent staring fixedly at the tower, the tide of battle had turned; turned entirely, disastrously, against the defending force. The plug of defenders was gone, the darkspawn horde surging through where they'd been, vanishing into the long, narrow pass like a snake running for cover down a hole. A flanking attack was now impossible; the best he could hope for was to harry the rear forces, and the darkspawn would now have the advantage that had previously belonged to the defenders, that of their larger force being forced to only engage the darkspawn along a small point of real contact.

Worse, the torches further back in the woods were stirring into movement, advancing slowly toward the meadow. They were not decoys; there _was_ an additional force of darkspawn approaching. If he charged now, he'd be taking his men into the exact same trap they'd planned to have the darkspawn in; caught between two forces.

It felt like all the blood in his body had left his head for his feet, leaving him bloodless and cold. He swallowed heavily. _Cailan_. His prince, his king... he was out there, somewhere, in the darkness and rain, surrounded by darkspawn, desperately fighting for his life, if he wasn't already dead.

"Sound the retreat." He didn't recognize the voice as his own, at first, so flat and empty and lacking emotion.

"But... what about the king! Should we not..." Cauthrien protested, eyes wide with horror.

He snarled, angrily grabbed her wrist in a punishing grip. "Do as I command!" he grated out, flung her hand free, then turned to watch the battlefield, hearing her stride away, hearing her give the necessary orders, hearing the shocked, disbelieving murmuring of his forces as they began to march away. He forced himself to watch the darkspawn advancing into the pass, forced himself to listen to the distant shouts and screams of pain and terror as the defenders died to darkspawn hands and weapons and teeth.

He wanted... he wanted time to stop. He wanted time to roll back, so he could somehow stop this from having happened. He wanted _himself_ to stop, to not have to live beyond this moment, when he had failed his father, failed Maric, failed Cailan, failed utterly his life-long promise to _protect the prince_. It would be so easy, to draw his sword, to charge forward down the hillside to the meadow, to try and cut his way through the surging darkspawn and find his king... to die, fighting to reach his side. To have an ending to this overwhelming pain that held him frozen and motionless, heart labouring in his chest, head aching with the savage surge of returned blood. But he had never in his life been allowed to take the _easy_ path. Someone had to pick up the pieces, salvage whatever could be salvaged, do whatever must be, could be, done after this... this _debacle_.

"_If you hadn't come after me, you might have made a difference in that battle. At the very least, you might have gotten more of them out alive_." Maric's words, so many long years ago, after Rowan and Loghain had abandoned the field at West Hill to fly to his rescue. He remembered them as clearly as if Maric stood before him even now, face a mask of anguish after being informed of the cost of that rescue – Rowan's father dead, the army decimated and scattered to the winds, the rebellion seemingly broken.

Remembered, too, the promise Maric had then forced out of him. Whispered the words, though they broke his heart, his voice broken and hoarse. "_Next time, I don't come to your rescue. You're on your own._"

A promise that it seemed Maric's son had all too bitterly inherited. There would be no rescue for those still trapped in the narrow pass; they were all, every last one of them, on their own.

He forced himself to turn his back, and walked blindly away, into the rain-swept darkness.


	5. Treason

It was raining as they passed Lothering. But then it had never quite stopped raining in the three days since they'd begun the retreat from Ostagar. Even when it wasn't actively raining it was wet, water dripping off every plant, heavy fogs overlaying the course of every pond and stream,

He had sent a patrol to try and reach the Tower of Ishal as they'd left Ostagar, hoping that Cailan's bit of nonsense with the bastard would salvage _something_ from this mess, but only two of the group had returned, with word that darkspawn were pouring out of the tower like water from a tap. Clearly it had been overrun through those lower tunnels that had so recently been uncovered – and equally clearly, this explained the lengthy wait before the lighting of the beacon. It _hadn't_ been lit when it should have been. He _should_ have ignored Cailan's orders and charged earlier. Loghain cursed once, wearily, at the news.

So even Maric's bastard was dead then, the line of Theirin rulers ended. There were more descendants of Calenhad among the nobility, of course. The family with the next strongest claim on the throne were... blast it, the Couslands, who had been decimated by that animal Howe. Fergus Cousland, assuming he was even still alive, was lost somewhere in the darkspawn-haunted wilds south of Ostagar. The youngest Cousland had not been seen nor heard of since spreading news of Howe's treacherous attack on Highever, might well be dead by his hand by now.

Which left... a clutter of nobility, many of whom could claim an equal right to assuming the throne. It was a recipe for dissension and civil war. A civil war they could ill afford, with darkspawn running free in the south, and a sizable force of Orlesian chevaliers camped on their western border. The only thing that would have made this situation worse would have been if they'd actually seen an archdemon during the battle, if this had proved to be a true blight. Thankfully they seemed to have been spared that extra edge of absolute disaster.

He frowned, trying to remember the wording of the papers under which he'd been named as a regent for Cailan when Maric had left on that ill-fated voyage five years before. Cailan's rule in his father's absence had only been meant to be a temporary thing until the king's return, a chance for the boy to gain some experience in the job he hadn't actually been expected to assume for years yet. Maric had wanted Loghain to have the powers of a regent so that Cailan, already past his majority but still far from mature, couldn't casually overrule the Teryn's advice. And Maric had expected to return in only a few months time to resume his throne and his duties.

The wording of the document had reflected that; it had been written as expiring once Maric returned, with a much more complicated set of terms in case he failed to return. There'd even been a section dealing with Loghain holding the throne as Regent until Maric's return if the boy died while Maric was still away... of course, that hadn't actually been intended to be used in quite _this_ situation, but then none of them had foreseen this situation; Maric dead, Cailan dead, and no clear heir, the country facing invasion from two directions at once.

It would give his re-assumption of the powers of the regency at least a tenuous legality, however, and once the darkspawn had been dealt with and the Orlesians backed down he could worry about identifying whichever puling noble actually had the right to the throne. He'd have to make it clear in the meantime that he had no personal intent to take the throne; supporting his daughter's claim to it as Cailan's Queen should make that clear enough. She'd been the true power in this country since marrying the boy-king anyway, Cailan at first too grieved to assume real leadership, and later too caught up in pursuing personal enjoyment to assume proper responsibility for his people and country.

Anora knew her duty; she'd hold the country together while he defended it. And at least it would give her something to focus on, once she'd been informed of the loss of the king. She'd loved her golden boy, even if more then once he'd proven himself unworthy of her affection. And she knew her duty; she would know that she'd have to remarry in time, preferably to someone with a strong claim to the throne in their own right. Or step aside, or name an heir from among Cailan's numerous cousins. They'd have to figure all of that out later; for now, there were more important things to worry about, such as making sure they still had a country to worry about the rulership of.

_Cailan_. By the Maker, it still didn't feel real to him that the boy was dead. It had never felt real to him that _Maric_ was dead, either, not when there'd never been a body to mourn over, to burn and scatter. He felt his fingers tremble on the reins he held. Maric. Rowan. Cailan. His father. He'd failed them all. He'd failed to protect the prince.

* * *

><p>He rode ahead as they neared Denerim, taking only an escort of soldiers mounted on some of the few horses they'd acquired since fleeing Ostagar, most of their mounts having been loss when the camp was overrun. He went directly to the palace, knowing his first job would be to inform Anora of Cailan's death, his second to summon the nobles, his third to inform them of the King's death and re-assert his claim to the regency of the kingdom, in his daughter's name.<p>

He could see that rumour had outpaced the army; Anora was looking pale and worried as he entered her presence.

"Is it true?" she asked, voice shaking, wringing her hands. "Is Cailan..."

"As far as we know, yes," Loghain said quietly. "There have been some few soldiers who escaped the battle at Ostagar and joined our retreat. They place him as still being at the forefront of the battle when the darkspawn broke through. The likelihood of him having survived..." he shook his head.

She turned away, walked over to the window and stood there a while, looking out over the city. He could see her shoulders trembling, knew she was crying, and wished he knew how to comfort her. But neither of them had ever been particularly demonstrative, certainly not with each other, and he knew he couldn't bring himself to intrude on her grief. He waited.

"What now?" she asked after a while, voice hoarse.

He sighed. "Now... you rule as Cailan's Queen. And I assume the regency, at least until we've driven back the darkspawn and are secure against Orlesian invasion. They will undoubtedly see this as a golden opportunity to reclaim Ferelden for themselves."

She nodded, back still to him. "By the terms of the documents Maric had drawn up, I assume?"

She'd always been a smart girl. "Yes."

"All right. I... need some time. Thank you for bringing me the news, father."

"I... am only sorry that it was necessary to do so," he said, softly, and left, so that she might calm herself and repair whatever damage her tears had wrought.

* * *

><p>He came to an abrupt stop in the door of his study, recognizing all too easily the tall, lanky man standing near one window.<p>

"_Howe_," he snarled, and crossed the distance between them in a few strides, putting his sword to the man's throat.

Rendon stood absolutely still, ignoring the razor-sharp edge pressed against his skin, and raised his eyebrows as if in surprise. "That's hardly necessary, my lord," he said calmly.

Loghain's eyes narrowed. "I believe it is, when I find myself confronted with the man who murdered the Cousland family out of hand."

"Hardly out of hand, my lord. And I believe once you see the evidence I have brought to present to you that it will be the Couslands, not myself, that you would rather be cursing."

"How so?" Loghain asked suspiciously, maintaining his sword at the other man's throat.

Howe's eyes flickered to his desk. "I put some papers over there. You are welcome to read them over and examine them. I promise not to flee the moment you take _this_," – a downward flick of his eyes toward the blade indicated what he was speaking of – "from my throat. I would hardly be standing here waiting to speak with you if I had intended to run away, after all."

Loghain snorted, but had to agree with the man's logic. He slowly stepped back, lowered his blade, and walked over to the desk, picking up the document on the top of the pile. He scanned it, eyes narrowing further, then dropped it, picking up the next, absently resheathing his sword as he did so. By the third page his face was flushed with anger, hands balled into fists.

"Sell us out to the Orlesians, would he!" he snarled. "Damn the man!"

He couldn't believe it of Bryce Cousland – didn't _want_ to believe it of Bryce Cousland, not the man who'd so firmly supported Cailan's confirmation as king after Maric's death, when others had wished to replace the untried youth with Bryce himself. But the evidence of these papers was... damning.

"Why didn't you bring this evidence before the Landsmeet?" he asked, raising his head to eye Rendon Howe suspiciously.

"Because I didn't _have_ those until I found them in a hidden drawer in Bryce's study. I'd... suspected, for some time, based on rumours that had reached my ears. You know that Amaranthine has almost as many trading contacts in Orlais as Highever. One of my contacts... let something slip, months ago. I didn't want to believe it, so I said nothing to anyone, but I started... investigating. Then when I was in Highever I took the opportunity to sneak into Bryce's study, and look for evidence. I found... those."

"And then you slaughtered the Couslands, rather then simply bringing this evidence to the proper authorities?"

"I had no choice! Bryce found me in his study. We fought. I tried to run, he chased me... his men and mine were both within the walls, a fight broke out, things spread out of control. He knocked me down, knocked me out, at some point. My men thought he'd killed me. By the time I woke... it was too late." he said with a shrug. "Most of Bryce's men had been sent south, my men outnumbered his considerably, and their rampage through the castle left very few survivors."

Loghain snorted. He didn't quite believe Howe's tale. Too much of it was... overly _convenient_, for an ambitious man, and he had little doubt that Howe was, indeed, a very ambitious man.

"There's more," Howe said. "Something I found confirmation of only after I came here."

"What?" Loghain snapped.

Howe carefully reached into a pocket, drew out a folded scrap of parchment, and handed it over.

Loghain looked at it, puzzled, then carefully unfolded it. It looked like it had been rescued from a fire, most of the sheet burnt away, the remains scorched and marked with smudges of ash. He scanned the words. For a moment they didn't make any sense. And then they did, all too horribly much sense.

"Maker's _balls!_" he exclaimed, and stumbled over to drop into his chair, legs for a moment no longer willing to support him. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, eyes narrowing angrily.

"From the fireplace in the Warden-Commander's quarters here in Denerim. Some of the rumours I'd heard involved the Grey Wardens. When I came here, I... took the liberty of checking their quarters. I believe several sheets had been burnt, but that was the only sizable fragment I could find." Howe said calmly.

Loghain stared at the man, then back at the paper in his hand. The few paragraphs it contained outlined a plot... a plot meant to lead to the death of King Cailan, followed by the invasion and reoccupation of Ferelden, under the guise of combating a blight that the wardens were to engineer the appearance of. Mention was made of a "friend in the north" that in light of Howe's other evidence could only be a reference to the Couslands.

A plot. An _Orlesian_ plot, one which he had failed to detect in time to prevent, failed to protect his prince from. His head sunk down on his hands, mind whirling.

"Go. I... need time to think." he growled out, listened to the rustle of Howe's clothes and the quiet sound of his feet as he rose, bowed, walked away.

* * *

><p>Rendon allowed just the slightest trace of a smile to cross his lips as he closed the door softly behind him. That had been rather closer then he liked. He'd had the papers proving a Cousland conspiracy forged months ago, at rather exorbitant cost. He hadn't been sure if he'd ever get a chance to use them, and then this Blight nonsense had started up, and the muster at Highever had finally provided him with the perfect chance to move against his <em>old friend<em> Bryce.

With luck, he'd soon be confirmed as the Teryn of Highever, the surviving Cousland family members placed under attainder for treason. And the timing couldn't be better; with young Cailan dead in the south, and all the political manoeuvring that was likely to cause, there might well be an even larger opening for him here, a chance to acquire even more power then he'd ever dared dream of.

But first off, he needed to secure what power he already had, and make himself indispensable to Teryn Loghain. Convince the wily bastard that he _needed_ Howe's help, Howe's backing, as one of the very few nobles who would support the common-born Teryn's bid for control of Ferelden.

Really, it had been inspired of him to manufacture confirming evidence in the form of a paper implicating the Grey Wardens, once word of the disaster at Ostagar had reached his ears. Loghain had never made his dislike and suspicion of the order a secret, and turning their involvement in the mess into proof of treasonous plans had been easy. Sneaking into the Grey Warden compound here at the palace had been child's play, and he was skilled enough as a forger in his own right to make good use of some samples of Duncan's handwriting and the Warden-Commander's own writing supplies. He'd even made sure to leave a piled of well-burned parchment in the grate, in case Loghain was paranoid enough to double-check his lies. Including a few purposefully tantalizing fragments that might serve to implicate others in the supposed plots.

The most delicious thing was that the lies had a core of truth to them. There _had_ been a conspiracy, though certainly not the one outlined in the 'evidence' he'd handed over to Loghain. The Orlesians would have been _delighted_ to make use of any excuse to invade Ferelden. But he was going to have to disappoint the next messenger they sent to him; why settle for a share of the pie after handing it over to new owners, when he might well be able to grab the entire thing for himself?

Most of Ferelden might view the events in the south as a thorough disaster. To Arl Rendon Howe, they were a golden opportunity.


	6. Mages

The meeting with the nobles went better than Loghain had expected, at least at first. They were still too much in shock over the news of what had happened in the south to raise objections over him declaring himself regent for his daughter Anora. That would come later, he was sure, once they'd had a chance to think things over, and decide that Queen Anora's claim to the throne was a tenuous one, that some of their own might have equally valid claims by blood. But if he could hold off the factionalization long enough, he'd have an army gathered, one big enough to beat the darkspawn back to their lairs and dissuade the Orlesians from invading.

"There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them. We must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation," he finished his speech to the gathering. It seemed to be being reasonably well received.

Then Bann Teagan stepped forward from the crowd. "Your lordship, if I might speak?" he asked hesitantly. There was little Loghain could do but nod and gesture his permission; any noble had the right to speak or question in meetings such as these.

"You have declared yourself Queen Anora's regent, and claim we must unite under your banner for our own good," Teagan said, then stopped a moment, giving Loghain a look filled with equal parts of grief and suspicion. "But what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most... _fortuitous_."

Loghain gritted his teeth for a moment, his hands tightening on the railing before him. He couldn't decide if Teagan meant the question honestly, or if he was implying that Loghain may have had ulterior motives for withdrawing from the field. If that _was_ what Teagan was implying – it stung, doubly so coming from one who looked so very like Rowan, whose trust in him had never once wavered. He'd seen that exact look of grief in her eyes, that long ago night when he'd convinced her that she must forget him, must go ahead and marry Maric. For a moment he couldn't speak, thinking only of how he'd failed her trust, allowing her son to die.

He didn't dare show hesitation or weakness before this gathering, however, not if he wanted to hold together what the three of them had fought for so desperately. His eyes narrowed as he grated out an answer. "Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden's independence. I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!"

Teagan looked affronted at the vehemence of Loghain's reply. "The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!" he snapped back.

"Understand this: I will brook no threat to this nation... from you or anyone!" he spat in return, feeling his temper rising. That was no good either; being overly harsh would drive away the very nobles he needed as allies in the coming months. He turned and stalked off, out of the chamber, before he could be spurred into making some even more intemperate response. He stopped outside the door, leaned back against the wall, massaging his aching temples.

He could hear Anora talking to Teagan, trying to smooth things over. Heard, all too clearly, the Bann's departing words. "Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?"

He bit back a curse, and stalked off to his quarters. Wine. Wine would sooth the aching of his head, distract him from the darkness of his thoughts. Or at least, in sufficient quantity, render him incapable of them.

* * *

><p>In the days to follow, he knew he was drinking more than he should, but it seemed the only way he could escape from the thoughts in his head. He would crawl out of bed in the mornings, head hammering with pain, and force himself through his usual routine of a cold bath, a close shave, dressing, a simple breakfast of what the palace cook, he knew, dismissed as "peasant fare". He had little appetite for the food, but knew he must eat, and forced it down, bite by bite.<p>

Then would come the meetings, with Arl after Arl and Bann after Bann, often with Anora at his side, the two of them working hard to gather support and promises of men, to rebuild the army. More than one turned him down coldly, seeming to believe the allegation that he's abandoned King Cailan to his death to further his own political ambitions. He judged that in more than a few cases, it was because it was what they, themselves, would have done.

He'd have dinner with Anora, discussing that day's progress, then inspect the slowly growing ranks of the army, often taking the time to join in the sparring on the training grounds; he needed to keep in condition, and he knew his demonstrated prowess and concern would serve to bind soldiers to him where being a remote figure of authority would not. And then the evening would stretch ahead of him, empty and alone, filled with memories of the past, and the accusing eyes of those he'd loved and lost. Those he'd failed. He'd drink himself into oblivion, eventually pouring himself into bed, only to wake the next day and have it all to do over again. And again. And again.

* * *

><p>"An interesting item of news has reached my ears," Rendon Howe told him one day, having sought him out shortly after the noon meal.<p>

"And what's that?" Loghain asked, suspiciously. He still didn't like the man, even if he was one of the very few nobles who had been stalwart in their support of his efforts to rebuild the army. The man was a snake. Still, he'd so far proven of use, and when Loghain had discretely checked into the stories the man had told him, it did seem that Bryce had indeed been on an unusually high number of trading voyages to Orlais of late. He'd personally checked the Warden-Commander's quarters, and found that the partial document Howe had given him matched with similar documents and writing supplies to be found in Duncan's office. Moreover, on sifting through the contents of the fireplace, he'd found some smaller fragments of parchment that Howe had missed. Frustratingly small, they contained only a single short phrase at most, but a couple had been... interesting.

"Arl Eamon's wife, Isolde, has been quietly looking for a tutor for their son, Connor. A... _special_ tutor."

"Special? In what way?" Loghain asked.

"A mage. Specifically, she is seeking an apostate mage to tutor young Connor. It seems the boy is a mage himself, and she hopes to keep the news of it a secret so that he can still inherit."

"Connor Guerrin, a mage?" Loghain said, eyes narrowing. "And how exactly did you learn of this?"

Howe shrugged. "I have my contacts, including among the apostates. There is always a use for a mage not governed by the dictates of the chantry. Isolde doubtless thought she was being very... _discrete_, in her enquiries, but one of the contacts she made was with a mage I've employed several times myself. He knew the news would intrigue me."

"Hrmm. It is interesting, I'll grant you that, but I fail to see what use we could make of it. We could hardly blackmail Eamon over it; he'd just have to shuffle the lad off to the Circle, and we'd have no more leverage."

"No, but if we wanted to put a man in his employ – how better than to present his lady wife with an apostate of our choosing, who will report regularly to _us_ about doings within the Guerrin household?"

Loghain frowned thoughtfully at Rendon. "And would I be right in guessing you have a suitable mage all picked out?"

Howe smiled. "Yes. My men recently saved an apostate who was about to be killed by templars. He is... quite grateful, naturally, and will do anything we ask of him, especially if we can promise to smooth things over with the Circle for him later so that he may return; it seems he's an apostate from necessity, not choice – he fled the tower after being accused of blood magic, and would like to return. He claims to have only used blood magic once, to have effected his escape, and that he's regretted it ever since. He wants a second chance. I'm afraid my own contacts at the Circle are few, but as Regent you perhaps have more influence...?"

"Hrmm. Possibly," Loghain agreed warily, thinking back to one of the senior mages he'd met at Ostagar... what had been his name, Ul-something. He'd seemed an ambitious sort. Loghain would have to write him, and explore the possibility of an alliance with the Circle; they'd need mages to fight the darkspawn, after all. "I'd like to meet this mage of yours, before I commit to anything," he said. "I don't like this talk of blood magery."

"Of course," Howe said agreeably. "Though we'll need to be discrete."

The mage proved to be so nervous and self-effacing that Loghain had little trouble believing he'd had no intent to ever actually _use_ the blood magic he'd studied, and had been horrified by the outcome of the one time he'd done so. He agreed to do what he could to arrange the mage's return to the Circle, once they no longer needed his services. The mage was effusive in his thanks, and promise to do anything they required of him in return.

He suspected what most influenced his decision, however, was not the mage himself, but one of the more evocative of the fragments he'd uncovered in Duncan's fireplace. Just a pair of partial words in length, but it had spelled out "_lesian wif"_. Guessing the missing letters was no great mental feat, and there was only one nobleman in Ferelden famed for the nationality of his wife. At least, of that _particular _nationality, Loghain corrected himself.

* * *

><p>"Jowan."<p>

"Yes, my lord?" Jowan asked, glancing nervously at the Arl as he finished packing away his last few belongings – all purchased for him by the man looming so uncomfortably close, as he'd been brought to him with nothing save the robe on his back.

"Teryn Loghain and I have reason to believe the Arl is plotting treason. If he comes to Denerim, it will make our task of organizing an army to defend Ferelden from the darkspawn and Orlais considerably more difficult; he's a quite accomplished politician, and has many allies."

"Yes, my lord?" said Jowan, wondering exactly what this had to do with him and his proposed placement as a spy in Arl Eamon's household.

"I'm going to give you a bottle of potion. If you hear that he is planning a trip here, you must see to it that he ingests the contents – it can be added with equal efficacy to food or drink, as long as the food is already cooked and won't be subjected to additional heat."

"It... it's not a poison, is it, my lord?" Jowan stuttered nervously.

Rendon smiled reassuringly. "No, just something that will make him ill for a while. Here – hide it well. You don't want anyone finding it by accident," he said, and passed over a small thick-walled glass vial, not even as large as Jowan's smallest finger, firmly stoppered and wax-dipped.

"Yes, my lord," Jowan said faintly, and buried it in a roll of socks.

"Good man. Serve the Teryn and myself well, and you'll be safely back in your tower in no time."

"Yes, my lord," Jowan agreed, unable to keep a note of longing out of his voice.


	7. Assassin

Drinking heavily was no longer something he did only in the evenings. Anora and Howe had taken over the lion's share of the political maneuvering , and most days he had little to do, other then spending some time overseeing the army in the mornings, and brooding the remainder of the day. It was all going to pieces faster than he'd thought it would, his support melting away like snow in spring. Perhaps if Anora had been pregnant, so there'd been some hope of a Theirin heir still... but it was not to be. And already allegiances were shifting, as various nobles took note of who had the clearest claim on the throne if she was removed, and reorganized themselves accordingly.

He suspected the Guerrin's were behind much of it; Arl Eamon had always been an ambitious man, and had never made a secret of his dislike of Loghain Mac Tir and his common origins. And however well Loghain might think of Bann Teagan in general – the man was astonishingly like his long-deceased older sister Rowan in personality, including having a full share of her sense of duty and honour – he knew the younger man was also fiercely dedicated to his brother Eamon. Moreover, after his outspoken words about Loghain's "fortuitous" retreat from Ostagar, he was a likely nucleus for any dissenting nobles to form around.

Couldn't any of them understand that this was not the time for petty politicking!

He cursed, and poured himself some more wine, then walked over to the fireplace. At least the darkspawn had not yet moved far from Ostagar, and with luck would remain in the south through the winter. He'd fight them in winter if he had to – but given a choice, a spring or summer campaign would be far more tolerable.

He heard a scuff of footsteps against stone, and glanced back to see Howe walking into the room. "What is it?" he snapped, annoyed by the man's casual assumption that he was welcome to enter Loghain's quarters without invitation.

"I bring word, sire. There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the regency," Howe said softly. "They are said to be gathering their forces. As are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn. Pity."

Loghain growled, gritting his teeth at the man's echoing of his own thoughts.

"I also have an interesting report," Howe continued. "There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar. How I don't know, but they will act against you. I have arranged for a... solution, with your leave."

More footsteps. Loghain straightened, fingers tightening with crushing force on the stem of the goblet in his hand. He was angered even further by the man's presumption. He'd dared invite some third person to Loghain's rooms...

"The Antivan Crows send their regards," a voice said with studied nonchalance in a heavy Antivan accent.

Crows! He spun, and found himself facing an elf, with darkly tanned skin and copper-blond hair, a tattoo curving down one side of his face. Not any of the Dalish patterns with which Loghain was familiar, possibly it was just decoration instead of having significant meaning. The man carried himself lightly on his feet, poised, and Loghain had little doubt he was eminently familiar with the use of the weapons strapped to his back – and that those were only his obvious ones. If he was one of the more highly skilled Crows, he'd be equally deadly stripped naked and with his hands tied behind his back as with weapons in hand.

"An _assassin?_" he spat, glaring at Howe.

"Against Grey Wardens we will need the very best, sire." Howe calmly responded.

"And the most expensive," the elf boasted with a broad, confident grin.

He turned away, glared into the fireplace. It curdled his stomach to realize that Howe was right. He'd seen Grey Wardens in battle, knew what they were capable of in a fight. Sending any normal soldiers up against even a single warden in anything but overwhelming numbers would be a waste of men. But an assassin... he took a gulp of wine to symbolically cleanse the rank taste from his mouth. "Just get it done," he growled, and hoped the elf was a competent as he was confident.

He listened to their footsteps retreat. Imagined, all too clearly, the look Rowan or Maric would have given him for stooping to such a measure. Cursed, and poured himself another goblet of wine.

* * *

><p>They heard nothing further about any Grey Wardens for almost two full months afterwards. Loghain began to believe that the assassin had performed as promised, and slain whatever wardens remained.<p>

Winter set in hard in the south, and the darkspawn incursion seemed at least temporarily stymied. Or so they thought, until word reached them that a sizable force of darkspawn had reached Lothering before the snows, and that the town was now a burnt-out, corpse-strewn refuge for the vile creatures.

At least the political situation seemed to have stabilized; word had come shortly before the fall of Lothering that Arl Eamon was ill, sick enough to have taken to his bed. Loghain couldn't help feeling pleased at the news. A bedridden Eamon was one less hand stirring the pot. Part of him couldn't help secretly hoping that the man would never rise from his bed again; he'd been a thorn in Loghain's side since the day he'd returned from the safety of the Free Marches to belatedly take up the cause of Ferelden freedom – which in his case meant only a concern for freeing Redcliffe from occupation, completely ignoring the rest of the country – and been disgruntled to find the common-born Loghain occupying the position of trusted adviser to King Maric that Eamon felt was due to _him_ by virtue of his noble birth and his sister's marriage to the king. That Eamon was only an Arl while Maric had leapfrogged Loghain straight into a Terynship, second only to Maric himself... that was merely the cherry on top of the Arl's dislike.

And then their belief that the assassin had done his job was shattered when word came that two Wardens had shown up at Redcliffe. They'd saved the village from oblivion at the hands of the walking dead, and killed young Connor, who'd become an abomination and caused the deaths of almost the entire population of the castle as well as a substantial percentage of the village. It was grim news, far overshadowing the word of the Wardens' continued survival.

Loghain cursed when he read a description of the pair. A dwarf with rather uniquely shaded hair, and a tall blond man. He'd last seen the pair standing near Duncan's fire as he was departing to lead his forces to where they were to wait in ambush. The pair who'd been told off to go to the tower and be backup for his own men. That newest recruit of Duncan's, and Alistair.

By the Maker...! Maric's son had just landed on the _wrong side_ of the brewing civil war!


	8. Alienage

Loghain sighed and settled further back against the pillows. He really should get up and do... something, but it all seemed so overwhelmingly _pointless_ at the moment. He found himself looking at the half-full bottle of wine sitting on his bedside table from when he'd retired late the night before, and feeling strongly tempted to pick it up and having a drink.

_Not_ a wise idea, he was sure. He was already drinking far more then he should be. Yet once the idea was in his head, it was hard to dismiss. His mouth filled with saliva at the thought of the sweet-sour tang of the wine in his mouth, how it would cut the foul taste from sleeping, how it would ease his frayed nerves. He clenched his hands on the sheet to resist reaching out and lifting the bottle. It would be so _easy_...

But today, as any day, he was not to be allowed the easy way. A thunderous knocking on the door to his suite made him jump. He rose out of bed, stalking out to the sitting room. "What is it?" he barked.

"Sire, there is trouble in the city," a familiar voice called. Howe.

He scowled, and unbolted the door, letting the man in. "What sort of trouble?" he demanded.

"The elves are rioting, sire. They've barricaded the entrances to the alienage... there were some, ahem... _incidents_... before they did so."

"Incidents?" Loghain asked sharply. "What kind?"

"Deaths, sire," Howe explained. "Mainly of the elves themselves, but there is word that there were humans caught up in the rioting as well. Bann Vaughan is rumoured to be among the missing; he is known to have been in the Alienage shortly before the riot erupted. "

"Maker's breath. All right, give me a moment to get properly awake and dressed, and then you can bring me up to speed. Send down for breakfast for me – for yourself as well, if you haven't eaten yet."

"Of course, my liege," Rendon agreed, and headed over to ring for a servant while Loghain returned to his bedroom. He skinned out of the loose drawstring breeches that he preferred as a sleeping garment, and took a moment to wipe himself down with a moistened cloth before quickly dressing. He'd have preferred a proper bath, but it didn't look like there'd be time for that just yet. What to wear... leggings and a gambeson, he decided, in case he ended up having to armour up and go deal with problems himself. He cast a regretful eye at the bottle still sitting on his bedside table. No. Best not to have his judgement clouded at the moment.

* * *

><p>It had been a very long, tiring day. He'd spent much of the morning overseeing the deployment of troops to maintain order throughout the city. Word of the rioting and deaths had spread, and any elves caught outside on the streets had become targets for random violence. For a while in early afternoon there'd been an ugly mob gathering in the market, threatening to storm the alienage. In the end he'd had to order the gates closed and guarded, and impose a three-day curfew forbidding the streets of the city to all elves to give tempers a chance to cool. He knew he'd be getting flack about that from disgruntled nobles before the curfew expired; they wouldn't like that their servants couldn't be sent to market. They'd like it even less if those same servants were killed, but far be it from most of them to follow simple logic when it conflicted with their comfort.<p>

He signed the last order that needed to be dealt with today, dripped wax on the parchment, and pressed the seal into it. Not his own seal, the wyvern of Gwaren, but instead the double-mabari of the crown seal. It still felt a lie every time he used it. Even when he's been regent for Cailan before Maric's disappearance – before Maric's _death_, he sourly corrected the part of him that even now did not want to believe his friend was gone from this world – he'd used his own seal, counter-signing documents already marked with Cailan's exuberant scrawl. A faint smile momentarily crossed his lips, remembering how _focused_ the boy would be when making his own seal, the very tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he dripped on the bright red wax, trying not to create too large or small a puddle before pressing home the heavy gold seal.

And now the boy, too, was dead. His hands clenched in fists, and he had to lean back in his seat a moment, _willing_ his ragged breathing to steady. It would not do for the Regent to be found crying in his study like a homesick schoolboy, he sternly reminded him. When his breathing steadied he carefully picked up and neatly put away the seal, the stick of wax, the quill pen and sharpening knife and carefully re-sealed bottle of ink. He frowned as he noticed his hands shaking. Tried to hold them still, and succeeded for only a few seconds before a tremor ran through them again.

Wine. Wine would steady his hands. He rose and stepped over to the sideboard where an opened bottle of red stood breathing, filling the air with its seductive fragrance. He winced as muscles protested at the movement after having sat still for far too long in full armour; he'd put it on when he'd gone out to tour the market earlier and order the gates closed, and then had neglected to take it off again when he'd returned to the palace, thinking it would only be some short time before he had to go out again. That had been hours ago. He was hesitating between stripping off his uncomfortable armour or pouring himself that longed-for glass of wine when there was a knock at his study door. He winced. Of course there'd be yet another interruption.

"Yes?" he called out. "It's open."

The door opened and Howe stepped in, with that extremely sober expression on his face that usually heralded his delivery of some particularly bad piece of news. "Sire, I'm afraid I have bad news about Bann Vaughan. We've... found his body." he said quietly.

"Maker's arse," Loghain muttered. He closed his eyes, and squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly, drawing a single deep breath. "I suppose I should have expected that. Where? And how did he die?"

Howe hesitated, looking ill at ease. "I believe he died in the Alienage, though the actual body was pulled from the river. He'd... it looks like he was beaten to death. Badly enough that he was only identifiable because of the seal ring on his hand."

Loghain blanched. "Damnation," he said, flatly, and dropped back into his chair. Thankfully it had been built to take such abuse, and didn't even shift at the heavy impact of fully armoured body. Loghain, on the other hand, found himself wincing as the unthinking act drove padded edges against already sore flesh, and turned his incipient headache into a full-blown throbbing. "Well, that's just the cherry on top of this delightful confection," he said dryly. "Who stands to inherit the Arling of Denerim now?"

Howe hesitated. "Well, there are several possible claims, my liege. All, unfortunately, about equally valid. The Kendalls' line has run to only sons for several generation now, but prior to that there was a generation where there was one son and three daughters. Each of whom married into a different noble family."

"Oh dear. And what _delightful_ news do you have to tell me about just which families can now, based on that, assert some claim for the Arling?"

"Their living descendants include Arl Eamon, Bann Sighard, that bastard of Maric's, and... myself."

Loghain blinked and stared at Howe. For a moment he almost... he winced, as his head gave an especially vicious throb. "Wine. I need wine," he said, and started to lever himself to his feet again.

"Permit me, my liege," Howe quickly offered, and stepped to the sideboard, pouring out two glasses of the rich red wine and bringing one to Loghain before picking up the second for himself.

Loghain tossed back half the glass in a gulp, grimacing at the taste, then settled down to sipping. "Sit," he ordered Howe, gesturing at a nearby chair. Howe brought over the bottle to top up his glass before doing so, leaving it on the desk in easy reach of both of them.

"Amaranthine, Highever, _and_ Denerim... you realize if I recognize you as the heir, all our enemies will believe this was a plot to ennoble you even further?"

"Yes, sire, but I don't think you really have any alternative. Denerim is too key to leave unclaimed for long, and frankly, sire... you _need_ my influence. I can sway the Banns to follow my lead. And I may even be able to talk Sighard into line, given some time – we are cousins, after all, even if I'm not as close with him as I was to Arl Urien."

Loghain nodded, settling back in his chair. "That's right, you were rather close with Urien, weren't you?"

"Yes. He and I had... many interests in common," Howe said, eyes going unfocused for a moment in apparently fond remembrance. "We'd developed a habit of my visiting with him at his estate any time I was in the city, which was about once a month on average. I have... missed him quite a lot, since his fall at Ostagar. I can't say that I was ever as close with Vaughan... miserable little shit-head, if you'll excuse me speaking disrespectfully of the dead, sire."

Loghain snorted. "You forget how much exposure I had to him when the children were all growing up. The motion is seconded and carried. Though I'd recommend we both show proper levels of grief – or at least regret – at his funeral," he added dryly.

"Of course," Howe agreed. "Do you mind if I have another? I... had to view the body. It was not a pretty sight."

"Go ahead," Loghain said, and when Howe offered the bottle, accepted a top-up of his as well.

* * *

><p>By the time Howe finally left Loghain's office, he was feeling reasonably confident that the other man was going to have to be poured into his bed. He made sure to mention to a passing servant that the Regent might need assistance, then set off out of the palace and down the road to the nearby estate that had, until this morning, belonged to the Kendalls of Denerim. Now, thanks to a little finesse on his part, and the signed and sealed documents in his belt pouch, it belonged to the Howes of Denerim. Pending confirmation by the next Landsmeet, of course, but he was certain that vote would go in his favour, once he and Loghain had disposed of their enemies. Or at least once <em>he<em> had disposed of them for them, or otherwise brought their votes into line.

He'd always wanted an estate. The Howe townhouse in a nice district downhill from the castle was all well and good, but only the most important of the nobles had estates in the city, and the Howes had lost theirs some generations back following that mess when they'd lost hold of Highever. And now... he'd wiped out the Couslands, a long-time thorn in his family's side, regained Highever, and gained the family an even better estate in Denerim then their old one had ever likely been. It was something to be proud of, despite – or perhaps particularly because of – the nefarious means he'd used to pull it all off.

He let himself into the estate, already in the control of his own handpicked men, most of the old Kendalls servants turned off and his own trusted ones in their place, apart from a few he knew had been in Urien's trust and therefore worthy of his. He stalked through the halls with long-held familiarity, years of association with Arl Urien having given him an _intimate_ knowledge of the place. He was pleased to see all of Kendall's mess already cleared out of the master bedroom, the room restored to the same quiet cleanliness and stately polish it had always had during Urien's tenure here, his own toiletries neatly arrayed to hand, his own clothing filling the large wardrobe and the clothes press.

He changed out of his armour, bathed, changed into some light comfortably fitting linen breeches and a loose tunic, then pushed past the heavy tapestry draping the wall at one end of the room. He found an anticipatory smile already lifting his lips as he unlocked the door at the bottom of the concealed staircase, and strolled through the familiar environs of the dungeon where he'd spent so many pleasant evenings with Urien, eventually reaching a door that only he had the key to, as best as he knew. Urien's original was undoubtedly lost at Ostagar along with his life and belongings.

He walked through the large, currently empty room, to the cells at the back, the ones Urien had used for prisoners whose presence here was so sensitive that even his most trusted guards and assistants were only rarely allowed to know of them. He stopped in front of the door of one of the two occupied cells.

"Good evening, Vaughan," he said, smiling down at the injured young man in the cell.

"Rendon! What is this! What do you mean, locking me up in my own dungeon... you're not going to get away with this..." the young man spat as he painfully levered himself to his feet.

"Oh, but I already have," Howe assured him. "You are dead, as far as anyone outside this room knows. And all this is now _mine_. Arling, estate, dungeon, and everything in it."

Vaughan paled. "What do you mean to do with me?" he asked hollowly.

"Nothing just yet," Howe assured him. "I'll leave you to imagine all that I _could_ decide to do at some later date, if the fancy strikes me. Sleep well, dear boy," he said, and turned and walked out, being sure to lock the door again behind him.


	9. Plague

"They were _here_? In Denerim? How did we miss arresting them!" Loghain demanded to know.

"Unfortunately, sire, the dwarf seems to have only been in town for a single day, and confined himself largely to the market district, where he was just another face in the crowd. We're still not sure if the other Warden was with him or not, large blond warriors being as common as grass with all the mercenary companies currently in town."

"A purple-haired dwarf was just another face in the crowd?" Loghain exclaimed sharply, scowling angrily. "It's not exactly a common hair colour."

"No, it's not, my liege. Unfortunately the only reason we even learned of the dwarf's presence was that very hair colour, and too long after the fact to be of any use; one of Ser Landry's friends was retailing the story of the man's fatal dual with a dwarf and happened to mention that particular detail near one of my men who _did_ know the significance of it. Unfortunately by the time word had got back to me and we could start properly looking for the creature, he'd vanished again. Though not, it seems, before making a considerable profit, and leaving a nasty mess for us," he added, gesturing at the pile of reports stacked haphazardly on Loghain's desk.

Loghain grunted, and made a sour expression at the scrawled sheets, having already skimmed their contents. The dwarf, it seemed, was an accomplished thief; he and his hypothetical companions had made a whirlwind pass through the marketplace and seemingly walked off with somewhere between fifty and a hundred sovereigns worth of valuables, from a valuable sword belonging to Ser Nancine – a theft only disturbing because she was a staunch supporter of the Teryn's – to the much more outrageous theft of the bars of silver he'd been planning to use to pay the mercenary companies with. That stung; he'd been hard-pressed to put together the money once, and now he'd have to do so a second time.

He hated that he was having to hire mercenary companies. But the army was still too small to deal with the masses of darkspawn down south, and with the growing threat of civil war shaking the bannorn, few nobles were willing to send any further musters of their own troops to join the army, not when they now feared that they'd need them closer to home.

Damn those Guerrins... Bann Teagan in particular, who seemed to be masterminding the resistance while his brother was incapacitated by whatever had laid him low. A pity the man was the younger son – he was _wasted_ as a mere Bann. It was to Loghain's benefit that the younger man didn't have anything like the influence he'd of had as an Arl, but it was still a damnable waste of a talented man, and Ferelden never had enough of those.

Loghain rubbed his aching brows, then poured himself another glass of wine, offering the bottle to Howe, who politely refused more.

"Any other delightful news you have to share with me today?" he growled.

"Not much. There is growing unrest within the city itself. We've pulled most of the guards into the army, and as a result incidents of crime are rising sharply, especially in the back alleys and side streets that we no longer have enough men to patrol regularly. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do to improve that, short of hiring more guards, and any man in the guards is one less in the army."

Loghain grunted, drinking deeply.

"Speaking of the army, there is also the problem with what to do with young nobles who are proving... problematic soldiers."

"What do you mean?" Loghain asked sharply.

"We have a number of nobles – third and fourth sons, mainly – who joined the army during the initial fervour and have since lost their taste for the military life. We can't discharge or discipline them as we would regular soldiers without potentially losing the support of their families, and keeping them on is having a poor effect on morale."

Loghain groaned and rubbed at his temples again, then had a glimmer of an idea. "Detach them to guard service," he said. "They can hardly make things in the city any _worse_. Who knows, maybe they'll even catch some bandits."

Howe snorted. "More like they'll catch a pox. But a good idea. Duly noted, site."

"Is that all?"

"I'm afraid not. There's also reports of plague brewing in the alienage since the closing of the gates. I'm afraid we'll need to order the gates kept locked until it burns out naturally."

"Maker's balls!" Loghain exclaimed, sitting upright. He'd been counting on recruiting among the elves in the alienage to increase the army numbers further, once the gates were opened again. For a moment he thought wistfully back to the years of the rebellion, when he'd organized and led the Night Elves, and wondered how many of his old comrades yet lived in the alienage here. He misliked leaving any man to die of sickness, but as close-packed as the city currently was right now...

"Do it," he said, bitterly. "We cannot afford sickness loose in the city right now. Perhaps we can find some healers willing to be locked in with them as well, to attempt to treat the sick, or at least ease their passing."

"I'll see it done, my liege," Howe agreed, then bowed himself out.

Loghain topped up his glass again and sat staring at the papers scattered across his desk. Every time he thought he'd begun to get things under control, something else happened. At this rate by the spring Ferelden would be a mass of civil war, and in the end the darkspawn and the Orlesians would be fighting over control of the remains.

He didn't want to believe that _this _is how the restoration of Ferelden would end – in rebellion and ruin.

"Maric you ass," he muttered. "Why did you leave it all on _my_ shoulders..."

Wearily he sat up, forced himself to put aside the glass, and begin working through the papers.

* * *

><p>They heard little about the wardens for some time after that; a sighting near the north end of Lake Calenhad, a report they'd been seen at the market outside of Orzammar, then... nothing, for a big chunk of the winter.<p>

And then word spread from Redcliffe that the Wardens had reappeared, curing the man with the aid of a pinch of what was being claimed to be Andraste's Ashes. Loghain cursed roundly when the news reached him. That was all they needed, religious mania thrown into the already volatile mix. And Arl Eamon's sizable thumb stuck back into the pie.

It was the _other _rumour that accompanied the news that really disturbed Loghain, however; the Arl and wardens were claiming that the Arl had been poisoned, by a man in Loghain's employ; that damnable mage they'd sent there as a spy. They claimed to have a confession from the man. If there was any truth at all to the story...

Howe. He wouldn't put it past the man to have given additional orders to the mage without telling him. Which made him start wondering what other _additional orders_ the man might have been giving without his knowledge.

It was only as he started thinking about what he'd need to do, in order to find out, that he really realized how much of his power as regent he'd already allowed to slip into the other man's control. It had been easier to stay in his office and drink and do paperwork and let Howe do all the footwork. Unfortunately that meant he'd only seen the people and heard the news or rumours that _Howe_ allowed him to. His contacts beyond the palace, never widespread at the best of times, were pretty much nonexistent now.

Time to stop drinking. And start forming his own network of contacts again. Cautiously... he didn't want Howe to realize what he was up to until it was too late for the man to cover up whatever he'd been up to over the past few months. Assuming he hadn't done so already; he doubted Howe was the sort to leave tracks at the best of times.


	10. Questions

Loghain stood in the middle of the room, staring at the throne-like chair without really seeing it. It was just one of many similar chairs scattered around the castle, most – like this one – surrounded by other, less ornate seating. Maric had always preferred thinking on his feet, but he'd also known the diplomatic usage of a properly offered chance for those he was talking with to sit and converse with him, like equals. These sort of little intimate seating areas were available throughout the castle wherever space allowed. Loghain could remember trailing in his wake while the man stalked down one hallway or another, arguing some point with some delegation from... somewhere, it no longer mattered where, there'd been so many similar moments... and how he'd win someone over just by flinging himself down in one of the throne-like chairs, gesturing impatiently for them to make themselves comfortable on one of the nearby benches, and sending someone off to fetch refreshments while they continued their debate. And yet even after seeing him do so dozens of times, Loghain had still never been entirely sure if it was a calculated act, or simply the man's underlying sincerity and friendliness briefly shining through. Maric had always been good at people, a skill Loghain knew he himself lacked.

He walked over, touched his fingers to the arm of the chair, slowly turned, and sat. Five years the man had been gone, and everywhere he looked, things reminded him of him. Would it ever really stop hurting? Or would it someday hurt even worse, when he abruptly noticed that he'd _stopped_ hurting over the loss of the one man he'd ever considered a real friend.

He shifted in the chair, wincing as his armour dug uncomfortably into him. He'd started wearing it again, since realizing that he didn't trust Howe. Not that he'd ever really trusted the little weasel, but he'd let himself be lulled for a while into forgetting just how dangerous the man potentially was. He was also cutting back on his drinking, though he was trying to keep that a secret, dutifully ordering multiple bottles of wine or brandy to his room, much of which now ended up emptied down the garderobe without benefit of having passed through him first. He still drank, but only enough to keep the shakes at bay. He'd do no one any good having a shaking fit and _visions _as he weaned himself off his dependency on the damned stuff, not to mention it would rather give away his efforts if he did.

Thinking of which, the next time a servant passed by, he waved the girl down and ordered a bottle and glass brought to him here. He opened it and poured himself a cup, took a couple sips, then carefully set it aside, ignoring the part of him that wanted to quaff the lot and pour a second. He just sat there, slumped slightly to one side, the side of his head resting against his mailed fist, staring at the bottle and goblet and _willing_ himself to ignore the seductive scent of the wine, to resist the lure of the oblivion it promised.

It was in that pose that Anora and Rendon found him. Anora was stalking along, back very straight and stiff in that way that more than anything else illustrated her distaste for the man following a few steps behind her. Howe, on the other hand, looked perfectly relaxed and at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. He spotted Loghain first, and gave him a slight bow.

"Sire? I have more news," he said.

Loghain frowned at him, wishing the two had continued on without noticing his presence. Anora was looking at him and the nearby bottle, a faintly disgusted look on her face. He stared at Howe, waiting for him to continue.

"Err... yes. Well, it seems that the fighting has gone exactly as you..." Howe began, only to be cut off by Anora.

"Enough! I would like to know what you intend to accomplish, Father. Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of each other?" she demanded angrily.

Loghain sighed and straightened up. "The nobility shall be brought into line, and then the darkspawn defeated. This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan's vanity demanded it be so," he answered her. Even to him his voice sounded raw and tired, and more than half-drunk, though he was more sober now then he'd been in far too long.

"Beg pardon, sire, but Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to face the darkspawn soon," Howe interjected.

Loghain winced. He knew that. It was a continuing nightmare of his, since the balance of forces had begun to swing more and more strongly toward the wardens and the rebellious nobles. That he'd be left without enough men to defend Ferelden from anything – not enough to end the civil war, nor to kill the darkspawn, not enough to keep the Orlesians from sweeping in.

"Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?" Anora asked just then, in a particularly ill-timed question given the direction of his own worries.

"Never! Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!" Loghain roared, his anger flaming forth in a way he'd rarely allowed it, and wouldn't have now if he could have prevented it.

Anora recoiled as if slapped. "We need help, Father! We _cannot_ deal with this crisis alone!" she insisted.

"Ferelden will stand on its own! I will lead it through this, Anora! You must have faith in me!" he said, fighting to keep a pleading note from entering his voice. He sometimes thought she was the only person left who did believe in him, who _did_ believe that he was fighting for Ferelden, not for personal power. If even she started to doubt him...

Anora was staring at him. "Did you kill Cailan?" she suddenly snapped.

He recoiled from the question. Maker, _no_, how could she for even one moment imagine that he's purposefully allow the boy to die! His mind filled with memories of the boy, growing up. The golden boy. He'd always said it cynically, as if it was a criticism of the rather spoiled youth, and yet... it had been what he _was_. Maric and Rowan's handsome son, with his curious mix of the best and the worst of both his parents. Maric's good looks and charisma and overactive libido and impetuous nature, given to bouts of sudden melancholy, Rowan's sense of duty, her generous heart and sudden impatience and boundless energy, her need to be in motion, in action, every moment of every day that she could possibly manage... and a doubled share of stubbornness from both of them, that too. Dear Maker, would he never stop aching at the thought of them, gone ahead without him, leaving him forever behind?

"Cailan's death was his own doing," he managed to choke out past the sudden thickness in his throat.

Anora's eyes narrowed, her hands balled into fists as if she wished to lash out at him, and suddenly she turned and stalked off, lips pressed together, face set in an angry mask. Howe turned and watched her leave, a speculative look on his face.

"Was that entirely wise, sire?" he asked.

"Leave me be," Loghain snarled, snatching up the goblet and draining it, then pouring a second.

"Yes, my liege," Howe said unctuously, and strolled off after Anora.

Loghain stared at the full goblet in his hand, then cursed and hurled it against the wall. Ignoring the shattered glass and spreading pool of blood-red wine, he stalked off to his own rooms, locking the doors and then angrily stripping off the armour, hanging it haphazardly back on its stand in one corner of the room before throwing himself down on his back on the bed, still clad in his gambeson and leather leggings, one arm draped over his eyes, trying to ignore his aching head.

They'd heard word of the wardens again and again of late. They'd been seen back at Orzammar again; most decisively so, having exchanged harsh words with Loghain's ambassador to the dwarfs right on the very doorstep of the place. The dwarf and his companions had been allowed in; Loghain's ambassador had not. By his words, it seemed the dwarfs were currently kingless anyway; he'd thought the dwarf's entry to the city wouldn't make too much difference in the long term.

And then as winter turned firmly to early spring, word came that the dwarfs did indeed have a king again, thanks to the intervention of the Grey Wardens, and were now firmly aligned with them.

Worse, only a week later he'd finally learned why communication with his contacts in the Tower had so abruptly ended. Uldred had proved to be a blood mage, and staged a vicious, bloody coup attempt within the tower, leaving most of the mages and many of the templars dead. Intervention by the Grey Wardens had again been responsible for the situation being resolved. He had little doubt they now had their hands on his correspondence with the damned fool mage, and that no one would ever believe he'd had only a peaceful interest in co-operation with the Circle of Magi. Damn the man! He wished it was possible to raise the dead, so he could repeat the warden's feat of slaying the mage.

He wondered where they'd show up next, what further present or potential allies he'd find severing all connections with him.

He forced himself to climb back off the bed. Exercise. He needed to get back in shape, to sweat some of the lingering effects of the damned wine out of his body. He needed to be back in control of himself, mind and body both, so that he'd have the energy to pull this damned country back together and save it from itself. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he's spent over thirty years now fighting for Ferelden. He'd be cursed to be Black City before he gave up, no matter how dark things looked now.

Exercise, yes, and then a long hot bath, and a small supper, and _one_ glass of wine before bed.


	11. Killings

Loghain stood in the middle of the blood-stained room, looking around. "And you say they were found like this?"

"Yes, my liege," the guardsman said uneasily. "Sanga notified me of the carnage after one of her workers noticed the smell. I recognized the man there as a soldier working for Arl Howe, and duly notified him."

Loghain nodded. The room reeked like a battlefield, of blood and loosened bowels and urine, from the corpses scattered around the room. "And you say this was done by the Grey Wardens?" he turned and asked Howe.

Rendon nodded. "Yes, sire. I had arranged a trap to lure in people with rebellious leanings – some flyers to lure them here, and a pair of my elite soldiers and some qunari mercenaries lying in wait for them. We'd picked up a few minor people, and then my trap apparently caught bigger prey then it could deal with; from descriptions given by the whores, it sounds like the dwarf, the bastard, and two of their companions – another dwarf and that treacherous elf – came here and slew all four of them some time yesterday."

Loghain scowled. "Do we know if they're still in the city?" he asked.

Howe shrugged. "I've heard no further word of them."

"If I may, my lord," the guardsman said warily. "I have heard more."

"Oh? Speak on, Sergeant... Kylon, wasn't it?"

The sergeant dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Yes, my liege. As you may know, we've been having a problem with bandit groups haunting the back allies for some time; groups I unfortunately do not have sufficient trained men to deal with myself. The chantry had even gone so far as to list a reward for anyone able to deal with them. It was claimed yesterday evening, and judging by the sheer amount of evidence my patrollers have found, it was a well-earned reward – they killed several dozen bandits in total. The description of the group of men responsible matches that of the four seen here. Nor was that all they did."

Loghain sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maker, he could use a drink. "What else, Sergeant?" he asked tiredly.

"I received an anonymous note this morning directing me to an address not far from here. The remains of a well-hidden blood mage coven."

"Blood mages! In Denerim!" Loghain demanded, horrified.

"Yes, sire. With the recent shortage of able patrollers, it's not just bandits who have been taking advantage of the lack of order in the city," Sergeant Kylon said calmly, only the look in his eyes betraying his fury at learning what had been going on in the city on his watch.

A feeling Loghain could identify with all too well; the thought of _blood mages_ on the loose in the capital city...! Andraste above, it said something about what a mess things were in when they owed more to fugitive Grey Wardens for increased safety in the city streets then they did to their own efforts.

"And you're telling me the Grey Wardens dealt with them as well?" he asked.

"Yes sire. Quite ruthlessly. My men will be all day hauling the bodies out. Possibly longer, an unfortunate number of them seem to have weak stomachs," he added acidly.

"Weak stomachs? Then what in the Maker's name are they doing as guardsmen..." Loghain asked, mystified.

Howe coughed. "I suspect the good Sergeant is referring to the men we transferred to the guards from the army, sire."

"Ah. Right. _Them_," Loghain agreed. Useless minor younger sons of equally useless minor noble fathers. "Well then, carry on, Sergeant, it sounds like you have your hands full."

Kylon nodded and discretely left. Loghain looked around the slaughterhouse that had been one of the Pearl's better rooms, then abruptly turned and stalked out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bar, currently deserted thanks to the presence of himself, Howe, and their men. The proprietress, Sanga, was seated on a stool at the bar, looking bored and tired. She jumped to her feet and pasted on her making-nice-to-nobles face as soon as the pair of them entered the room.

"Teryn Loghain, Arl Howe – is there anything I can get for you gentlemen?" she asked with a welcoming smile.

Loghain paused, eye caught by the innumerable bottles lined up behind the bar. For a moment he was conflicted between his aching _need_ for a drink, and he resolution to cut back. It was the presence of Howe that decided him. What better proof might he give the man of his continued – and presumably growing – dependance on drink then by partaking now. "A brandy, please," he told the woman, and stalked over to stand at one end of the bar.

"If you'll excuse me, I have arrangements to make about the bodies of my soldiers," Howe said.

"Of course. Go ahead," Loghain urged him, just as glad to see the man's back.

He was rubbing again at his aching forehead when a glass appeared on the bar in front of him, deftly served by Sanga herself.

"I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner those four were wanted men," she said offhandedly. "Two of them spent the night here, and they all breakfasted here before leaving."

"Oh? Really?" Loghain asked, his interest caught by her seemingly casual words. There'd been a time when he and Maric had been frequent customers here – for the gaming and drinks, more than the wenches, though more then once he'd sat out here at the bar while Maric exercised his baser urges in one of the back rooms. Better with a whore then with a mistress, Loghain had always felt – Maker knew Maric's choices in lovers had never been particularly wise. Sanga had often had some quiet word for his ears back then, some hint of rumour she'd felt it politic to mention to the man with the king's ear.

"Yes," she continued quietly, pouring herself a glass of white wine. "They were all quite polite and well-behaved, apart from one of the dwarfs who got a bit too drink-taken."

Loghain swallowed heavily. "How did... how did the boy look?"

Sanga was a smart woman, smart enough to not need any clues as to who _the boy_ might be. She darted a look at him, eyes evaluating him for a long moment before answering. "Spitting image of his father and brother," she finally said softly.

"I know _that_," Loghain growled. "I've seen the brat before. I meant... how is he?"

"Healthy. Sad. Easily flustered... he has the most delicious blush. Half my whores would have done him for free, if he'd shown the least interest."

Loghain found a smile twitching at one corner of his lips. And how long had it been since he'd last felt like smiling over _anything_, that this would feel like such a noteworthy event to him. "The full measure of Theirin charm, then," he said dryly.

"Oh yes," she agreed, then stood a moment in silence, sipping at her wine and watching him carefully. "Do you trust that Howe?"

"Never," he growled.

"Good," she murmured, voice only a thread louder then a whisper. "I don't like the use he made of my premises without my knowledge or permission. And him and that Arl Urien were far too close for my liking. Not with some of what I heard said about the old Arl's tastes."

Loghain frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean...?"

She sniffed. "You wouldn't have heard. Not the sort of rumours the nobility would be in any hurry to spread to anyone they didn't think of as _their kind_. Let's just say that there's more places in Denerim that have dungeons than Fort Drakon and the city jail."

She moved off then, leaving the last of her drink behind her. Loghain frowned, and finished off his own brandy before starting back to the palace.

* * *

><p>Once again the wardens vanished into the woodwork, as hard to pin down as vermin. Though this time it wasn't more then a couple weeks later that they heard word of them again; they'd reappeared at Redcliffe, having come to some agreement with the Dalish elves on their way from Denerim to there, and were now returning to the city, openly, along with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan.<p>

Howe was all for seeing the party ambushed and wiped out on their way to the city, but both Anora and Loghain overruled him; it would only give fuel to their enemies if they acted against the Arl, now that he'd called for a formal Landsmeet. They had no choice now but to beat him politically, if they could. Their own support was increasingly shaky; whether they could manage a majority of the votes now was entirely up in the air.

After months of inertia, it felt like things were coming to a head far too fast. Loghain could only hope that he'd be up to seeing the country through the potential nightmare ahead.


	12. Disappearances

Loghain's mouth was dry as a bone, and his head was aching, and not just because he hadn't had a single drop of wine since before going to bed the night before. No, it was the coming confrontation that had him on edge, as he stalked through the city with Arl Howe, Ser Cauthrien, and a party of guardsmen at his back, headed to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate just off of the Denerim market. He was not looking forward to confronting the arrogant Arl, though it was something he felt needed to be done. He needed to have a sense of how adamant the man was in his opposition to Loghain; there might still be some small chance that the two men could work together for the good of Ferelden, despite their long history of dislike. Arl Eamon was nothing if not a political creature, after all.

He wished Howe wasn't there; he hadn't planned to bring the man, but unfortunately he'd encountered him on his way out of the palace and hadn't had any reasonable excuse _not_ to allow him to come along. Howe's presence made him... uneasy, the more so given what little he'd been able to learn since speaking with Sanga. He'd thought the hardest part would be getting out of the palace unobserved so that he could make seek out old contacts and make enquiries. Getting out had proved to be the _easy_ part. Very few of his old contacts remained, and most of those had taken one look at him and turned and walked away. Only two had been willing to talk at all.

One, the daughter of one of his Night Elf archers, had said something short and bitter about how "_at least under Vaughan, elves that disappeared usually returned_", then walked away and refused to have anything more to do with him. Knowing what rumours said of Vaughan and his tastes... that single sentence was deeply disturbing.

The other, once an almost-friend but whose eyes were now cold and wary, spoke briefly and in hushed tones about other _disappearances_. People who'd spoke out too loudly about _Tyrant Loghain_. People who questioned the Teryn's word about events at Ostagar. People who protested the heavy taxes being levied to pay for the army and the hiring of mercenary companies. Someone was seeing to it that the more vocally opposed to himself and his rule were vanishing.

He doubted Anora would be fool enough to engage in such ruthless and above-all _stupid_ activities. His prime suspects were the man and woman at his heels; Ser Cauthrien might do something like that out of misplaced loyalty to him. Howe... might do it for any number several reasons, from subtle sabotage to much darker reasons. Sanga's words about Howe haunted Loghain. That there were more dungeons in Denerim then at Fort Drakon and the city jail. Loghain knew where some of them were, of course, mostly forgotten under the noble estates that dotted the city. And Howe now lived in one such estate. He would have to investigate these disappearances further, if only he could find _time_ to investigate further. But time was at a premium now, with Arl Eamon in the city and a Landsmeet due within days.

They reached the Arl's estate. Eamon's guardsmen were understandably tense on finding Teryn Loghain sweeping up to the main entrance with a party of guardsmen at his back. Loghain scowled in annoyance at them as they wavered between admitting him or blocking his entrance.

"Don't worry," he snapped. "I'm here to talk to your master, not arrest him. My men will wait out here. Now open the blighted door and let me through."

"Yes, ser," one stuttered, and hastily did as told. The second gave him and his escort a worried look and hurried on into the house, doubtless to bring Eamon word of the unexpected guests on his doorstep. Not that he remained on the doorstep; he, Cauthrien and Howe followed in only steps behind the hurrying guard.

"Beg your pardon, sers," he heard the guard stuttering out somewhere ahead, "But the teryn..."

He passed through a doorway, into a hall, and found Arl Eamon there. And not just the Arl; the purple-haired dwarf was there as well, and _Alistair_. It hurt, the pain of sudden recognition and near simultaneous realization of _not Maric_. Hurt even more, seeing Maric's double looking at him with an expression of such dislike and distrust, an expression he'd only seen on Maric's face during the earliest days of what eventually became a life-long friendship. Life-long on Maric's side, anyway... his life still continued on, made empty by the man's absence.

"I can introduce myself," he snapped out, gritting his teeth and stiffening his back against the urge to drop to his knee before this man, address him as _my liege_, as he would have without a second though if it were Maric or Cailan.

"Loghain. This is... an honour, that the regent would find time to greet me personally," Arl Eamon said, his voice chilly, eyes cold with contempt and dislike.

"How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?" Loghain said, meaning to keep his voice light but unable to prevent a sneer from entering it, thinking how Ferelden was being shredded apart at the worst possible time by this man's power plays and petty politics.

He glanced again at the man's... guests. Alistair was hanging back, eyes hooded, an almost sullen look on his face now. The dwarf was standing calmly, eyes flickering back and forth between the Arl and the Teryn, a guarded expression on his face. For all his compact solidity, he carried himself lightly on the balls of his feet, ready at a moment's notice to use the weapons strapped to his back. As did the elf that had appeared from somewhere and now stood at the dwarf's back, eyes equally as wary. He'd seen that elf somewhere before... he almost missed Eamon's next words, caught up as he was in puzzling over the dwarf and the elf.

"The Blight is why I'm here. With Cailan dead, Ferelden _must_ have a king to lead it against the darkspawn," Eamon pontificated.

"Ferelden _has_ a strong leader: its queen. And_ I _lead her armies," Loghain snapped back.

"Considering Ostagar, perhaps we need a better general ," the dwarf said quietly.

Loghain glared at the dwarf, biting back fury at his words. "And who is this, Eamon? Some new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you play the nursemaid to, not Orzammar's rejects," he growled.

"Well, you're admitting the 'royal' part. That's a start," Alistair muttered, drawing glares from both Eamon and Loghain.

The dwarf gave the boy a brief, amused glance, then looked back to Loghain. "I am Right, of the Grey Wardens," he calmly introduced himself, choosing to ignore the bastard's interjection.

"You have my sympathies on what happened to your order. It is unfortunate that they chose to turn against Ferelden," Loghain curtly told him.

"I don't accept the sympathies of deserters and regicides," the dwarf responded, the words all the more cutting for the flat calm in which they were delivered.

It was all Loghain could do not to shout in anger and draw his sword right then and there. By the Maker, he was neither a deserter nor a regicide, and that this damned _dwarf _would have the gall to stand there and calmly accuse him as such...!

"You should curb your tongue. This is my city, and no safe place to speak treason. For _anyone_," he snapped, then turned away from Right to look at Arl Eamon again. "There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon. Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden."

"'Illness?' Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these... sycophants." the Arl said, glance passing dismissively over Ser Cauthrien and Arl Howe.

"How long you've been gone from court, Eamon! Don't you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, and Teyrn of Highever?" Loghain enquired with false civility, gesturing to the man.

"And current arl of Denerim, after Urien's _unfortunate_ fate at Ostagar. Truly, it is an embarrassment of riches," Arl Howe said unctuously, an unpleasant smirk on his face.

"That's a lot of titles for one man to have," Right observed dryly.

"Don't interrupt, _churl_. Your betters are talking!" Ser Cauthrien snapped at the dwarf.

Loghain held up his hand, frowning at her. "Enough, Cauthrien, this is not the time or place," he said, then looked at Eamon again.

He knew it was useless, but he had to try, had to give the man a final chance to turn away from the dangerous game he was playing with the nation's future. He fought to keep his voice calm and even, not angered, and certainly not pleading. "I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened: Our king is dead. Our land is under siege. We must be united now, if we are to endure this crisis. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed? You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne."

Even as he spoke, he could see that his effort was of no use; the Arl's rejection of any words he might possibly say clear in the man's defiant posture and cold stare. There would be no compromise with the Arl. This trip had been a waste of his time.

"What efforts can there be when you outlaw the Grey Wardens?" the dwarf interjected.

"Cailan depended on the Grey Warden's prowess against the darkspawn, and look how well that ended. Let us speak of reality, rather than tall tales. Stories will not save us," Loghain snapped, angered by the interruption, even if he's already given up any hope of swaying the recalcitrant Arl.

Eamon shook his head sadly. "I cannot forgive what you've done, Loghain. Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight."

"The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down," Loghain said, glaring at Eamon. "Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland," he added, then turned and stalked out, Ser Cauthrien and Arl Howe at his heels.

The three maintained silence all the way back to the palace, where Loghain dismissed Cauthrien back to her duties with the army. He was annoyed to find Howe following him right on into his office.

"Shall I do anything about the Arl or his house guests?" Howe asked quietly.

"No," he snarled. "Touch them at your peril; it would only serve to stiffen the resistance against us. We must defeat them openly in the Landsmeet. Now leave me be, I have much thinking to do," he spat, turning away and walking over to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of wine.

"Yes, my liege," the man said, and mercifully left.

He drank back the wine, then poured himself a second cup, sitting at his desk and brooding over the morning's events while he slowly sipped it, almost groaning in relief as his pounding headache faded somewhat. He sighed and put aside the half-drunken glass. He should tell Anora about his visit to the Arl, and its pointless outcome. He sent a servant ahead to announce him, and started off to her quarters. He was nearly there when the servant returned. "Beg pardon, sire, but the Queen is not in her suite," the servant told him.

"Where is she, then? The throne room?"

"No, sire, she went out of the palace this morning, with her maidservant Erlina. They have not yet returned."

"Damnation," Loghain growled. "All right, leave word that I wish to speak with her when she returns. I'll be in my study."

He returned to his office, wondering what errand she'd gone out on, and hoping she'd taken an adequate force of guardsmen with her; the city was far from being as safe as it once had been, and with the current discord among the nobles, her safety could not be guaranteed. It was not until she had failed to return by late evening that he learned she'd taken only the single maidservant and a scant handful of guards. And that no one knew where she'd gone.

And then the bodies of the guards were found, slaughtered and dumped in an alley.

The Queen was missing.

His daughter, missing.

By Andraste's grace and the Maker's mercy, don't let him have failed _her_ as well!


	13. Dungeons

The next day passed with agonizing slowness. There was still no word of Anora, no clue as to where she and Erlina had vanished to. Loghain forced himself to remain outwardly calm, overseeing the search for her, though inside a part of him was gibbering in rage and near-madness, drowning in overwhelming fear and horror as minutes crawled by like hours with no word on her.

The worst part was hearing about some of the things his men _did_ find, in the course of their quiet search. Bodies, abandoned here and there – nothing particularly new in Denerim, people died in the streets all the time, but these bodies... the _condition_ they'd died in... Ser Cauthrien tried to keep the news from him, but he heard anyway. The thought that she might be in the hands of someone capable of that... Maker, _Maker_, let it not be so! He would run mad and tear people apart with his bare hands and teeth if she came to such harm...!

Howe was by his side constantly, helping with the search, pointing out areas of the city that had yet to be checked, quietly keeping him up to date on what was found, learned, or merely suspected. Topping up his wine glass whenever it emptied, though as driven as he was right now Loghain barely touched it to lips all day long, too shattered to eat or drink until Ser Cauthrien dressed him down like a lowly recruit at the day's end and stood over him while he choked down food.

"Are you going to see me off to bed as well, mother?" he sourly asked her as he sipped at the glass of strong spirits she'd pointedly held out to him when he'd finally eaten enough to satisfy her.

She coloured slightly, but lifted her chin. "Only if I thought you needed it. And you don't. You're a better man then this, sire," she said calmly.

Her calm voice was more of a rebuke then anger would have been. He sighed, knocked back the drink, set down the glass and rose to his feet. "I'll be in my room," he said dryly. He said nothing about actually _sleeping_; he doubted he would, this night.

He did not ask her to send word if anything new was found. He knew she would.

He lay in the darkness, rigid on his bed, mind conjuring nightmares more then sufficient to keep him from any sleep.

* * *

><p>The second day was a repeat of the first, only worse. He was so tired he wasn't sure he could trust his judgement any more. Howe was a rock at first, but quickly became an irritant, with his quiet calm voice and flat unemotional eyes, and the soft tone of voice in which he'd describe the latest atrocities the guards had discovered in their search for the missing Queen. Finally he broke, and ordered the man out of his presence. Better not to know at all, then to listen to the man quietly describing some broken body and imagining Anora in that person's place. It was driving him mad, enraging the beast that lurked within his breast and longed to break free, to rend and tear and destroy until she was brought back safe to him.<p>

Even the word that his seneschal had been openly robbed by the damned dwarf late the day before failed to distract him from his obsessed worry over Anora' safety. The loss of that damned circlet meant nothing right now. He could worry about it later, once his daughter was found and safe. If she was not found... Maker, if she was not found, it would not matter.

In mid-afternoon, he went looking for Ser Cauthrien, only to be told she'd received word of some kind and gone out, accompanied by a strong force of guardsmen and a couple of mages. He preyed that she'd found a lead, had gone out to check on it, and spent over an hour pacing back and forth in his office before she finally returned, looking grim and tired, her mouth compressed into a flat, foreboding line.

"Cauthrien! Have you found anything? Is she...?"

"Sorry, Sire, there is still no sign of Queen Anora or her maid. However, there's... been an incident at the Arl of Denerim's estate. I believe you need to come see for yourself, my liege."

His heart felt like it stopped and restarted again. Still no word... then why did Cauthrien look so grim. "What is it?" he demanded as he followed her out. "What has happened?"

She glanced around, making sure no one was near, then spoke in hushed tones. "The Wardens have slain Arl Howe. And... there are things in his house you need to see. Please, do not ask me more. I would rather you witnessed this... untainted by my suspicions on the subject."

He paused, and stared searchingly at her. He could not ever remembering her seem so distraught. Few others would he trust enough to lead him blindly into what promised to be a dire situation, but she had earned his trust many times over during her years of service. "All right, Ser Cauthrien," he said quietly. "Lead on."

* * *

><p>He knew it was doing to be bad as soon as they entered the house. It smelled of death, like the aftermath of a battlefield; blood, feces, urine. Like that room in the Pearl, where Arl Howe's men had been slaughtered. Several guardsmen stood around, faces pale and white and in some cases tear-stained. He smelled vomit, and wasn't surprised when they reached the first cluster of bodies. Howe's guardsmen, variously dead, the work of edged and pointed weapons and a mabari's teeth, by the looks of it.<p>

"How many?" he asked, voice harsh.

"Dozens, sir. We found some surviving servants. This... this was all the work of two men, they said. The Grey Wardens."

"_Two men_ did this!" he demanded, appalled, as he followed her through the house, looked at the carnage, the bodies lying in scattered droves everywhere. Tried to picture Right and Alistair doing this much damage, by themselves. Remembered, suddenly, the almost preternatural combat abilities of the few Grey Wardens he'd observed fighting before. Yes, with that sort of uncanny speed and strength and teamwork, pitted against normal guardsmen in tight quarters, it was just barely believable that two men could have done this.

"Yes, my liege. And this is not the... the _worst_ of what is in this house," she said, voice shaking slightly, and led him on, through to the family quarters, into what was clearly the master suite. He was surprised to see a stairway down at one end of the room, had vague memories of a large tapestry covering that wall the one time he'd ever seen the inside of Arl Urien's quarters years before.

"There is another entrances to the dungeons, but I believe this is the one they actually used; the other was still locked," she said, voice flat.

An entrance to the dungeons! Off of the master suite, of all places? He remembered Sanga's words about Howe and Urien, and was coldly certain that he was not going to like whatever Cauthrien was about to show him. "Lead on," he said, flatly.

It was every bit as bad as he'd imagined. The rooms full of torture equipment, some of it still bloody from recent use. The cells. The mangled remains. Those bodies his men had found while searching for Anora – had they been Howe's work? He remembered the man sitting in his office just this morning, quietly describing the most recent gruesome findings, not seeming to realize how it was driving Loghain mad with fear for his daughter... but he'd _known_, hadn't he. Oh, yes, the man delighted in torture, there could be no doubt. By the time they reached Howe's cold remains, all he could wish was that it was possible to raise the man from the dead so that he might kill him himself. He stared coldly down at the man's corpse for a long moment, then turned and walked back out to the hallway.

"There was no sign of Anora?" he asked, hearing the pleading note in his voice and no longer caring.

"No, my liege," she answered quietly. "I... have the Grey Wardens locked up at Fort Drakon. What do you want done with them?"

He blinked at her in surprise. "You... captured them?" he asked, surprised.

Her lips thinned. "Yes. More correctly, they surrendered when I demanded they do so. Considering what a slaughterhouse they made of this place, I suspect I am lucky that they chose to be... reasonable."

Loghain frowned. "What brought you here, anyway?"

"I received a note, claiming that the Grey Wardens planned to slay your ally, the Arl of Denerim. I came here immediately to warn him; my men and I had to break in as there was no answer at the doors. We'd found the first bodies, and then encountered the wardens as they were about to escape. They were covered in blood, as if they'd bathed in it. I was sure the Arl must be dead already, as soon as I saw that. It wasn't until they were already on the way to the Fort that I discovered... all that they'd done. Or any of _this_," she added, gesturing at the dungeon around them.

Loghain nodded. "You've done a good day's work here, Cauthrien. I'll want to see that note, if you still have it."

"Yes, sire," she said, digging in a belt pouch, and handed it over.

He felt a knot loosen slightly in his chest as he looked it over. She'd tried to disguise her hand... but he'd know his daughter's writing anywhere. She'd penned this note, may well have engineered this event. She was still alive – or at least had been recently enough to have written this. He could only hope and prey that she still was, that she had not somehow fallen afoul of whatever scheme she was working.

"Thank you, Ser Cauthrien," he said quietly, and folded it up, putting it away in his own pouch as a talisman, ignoring her questioning look.

"And the Grey Wardens?" she asked after a moment.

He grimaced, feeling his lack of sleep over the last few days catching up with him. "They'll keep until morning," he grated out. "Order the bodies here gathered and burned – identify them first, if possible, have scribes take down descriptions of everyone. If any prisoners still live, see they're cared for. Discretely, for now, the last thing we need is the entire world finding out what a monster Howe was. They will, eventually, but hopefully by then things will be... stable. Any papers of his you find, gather up and have delivered to my office, I'll need to go over them and see if there's any clues to the extent of what that madman did. Make sure your men know to keep their lips sealed about this for now as well. With luck we can keep it quiet until we're past this damned Landsmeet."

"Of course, my liege," she said quietly.

They returned upstairs in silence. She escorted him back up the street to the palace herself, before returning to oversee the clearing of the estate.

As tired as he was, it was a long time before he managed to sleep. Every time his eyes started to drift shut, he saw scenes from that blood-daubed dungeon, or worse, Howe's quietly knowing smile as the man lovingly described torn and broken bodies.


	14. Betrayal

He was woken early the next morning by a tired looking Ser Cauthrien, with the news that the Grey Wardens had not waited after all. Some time the night before, someone had talked their way into Fort Drakon, then fought their way to the prison cells, and escaped with the wardens.

"One man," he said disbelievingly after receiving her report. "You're telling me _one man_ broke in and did this! Did we miss news of a third warden or something?"

"No, my liege," she said, voice cracked with exhaustion. "By all accounts he was a normal man. Normal elf, rather, apart from his ability to fight like a very demon. We have a good description of him, at least – the guards who admitted him had gone off-shift before he and the wardens slaughtered their way back out. Male elf, copper-blond hair, tanned skin..."

Loghain cursed quietly, remembering an elf of that description standing watchfully at the dwarf's back when he'd visited the Arl's estate several days ago. Doubtless the same one.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," he said bitterly. "Not unless we wanted to attempt arresting them in the middle of Arl Eamon's estate. Anything else I need to know before you retire and get some rest?"

"Sire, there's too much to do right now..."

"My dear Ser Cauthrien, this from the woman who not two days ago scolded me and made me eat my supper and go to bed? You _will_ rest, and that is an order. I need you at your best for this damned Landsmeet tomorrow."

"Yes, my liege," she said quietly. "Nothing further. There is still no word on Queen Anora. Arl Howe's effects are in your office. I've assigned everyone who is involved in the cleanup at the estate to stay there until further notice, with a separate set of uninvolved guards on the main gate to make sure they stay there, and keep others out."

"All right. Good work, Ser Cauthrien. You have my thanks."

"Ser," she said quietly, and left.

He hurriedly dressed and marched down the hall to his office, fingers brushing against the belt pouch containing the note from Anora, reminding himself that she'd been well enough to write that just recently, that chances were good that his daughter yet lived and was fine. A small chest containing a sizable stack of papers waited for him beside his desk. He sent a servant off to fetch him a good breakfast, then started sorting through the papers, looking for anything that might yield some clue as to Howe's recent activities.

Bills, salacious letters from at least two of Howe's mistresses, a message from his guard captain about – Maker's breath, why would the man have had his own seneschal locked up? He put that one aside to read more thoroughly later, and made a note to keep an eye out for any further letters on the subject.

Breakfast arrived. He had the servant put it on the sideboard, and walked over to help himself to a cup of tea and some toast with jam a few minutes later. Forced himself to sip the tea slowly and calmly, when what he really wanted was a drink. A strong one. Later, he promised himself, but not until he _really _needed it, not just wanted it.

Tea finished, he picked up an apple, and returned to the desk. He took a large bite, and resumed sorting through the remaining papers one-handedly. And stopped.

That was his seal and signature on the foot of this document, but it wasn't anything he recalled signing. Frowning, he set the apple carefully aside and lifted the paper, quickly scanning down the text, his brow furrowing in anger as the import of the words set in.

"How _dare_ he!" he roared, surging to his feet, hands shaking with fury, vision narrowing and filling with odd sparkles for a moment, so great was his anger. He had _never_ signed this, would never have knowingly signed something like this! He forced himself to resume his seat, to re-read the paper, not touching it as he could not trust himself not to tear it in shreds and throw it on the fire. It was a copy of an agreement, supposedly written with his approval, for Tevinter slavers to remove elves from the Denerim alienage and take them away into slavery in that despicable empire. Ferelden citizens, enslaved and sold away, and all supposedly at his connivance! He pictured his comrades in the Night elves, their deadly pride and grace, his one-time _friends_, betrayed and sold away, and wanted to be sick. He wanted this document not to exist. He wanted to believe that not even Howe could be this unspeakably _vile_...

Worst of all, perhaps, was the niggling thought... if this was so clearly a forgery – and it was, for he had never signed or sealed any such document – than what other papers might the man have forged? Might _he_ have accepted as truth, when they were blatant falsehood? It cast a disturbing light on the question of the guilt of the Cousland family, on the complicity of the Grey Wardens in King Cailan's death, on... everything. He could not dare believe a single word the man had ever said to him, not a single thing he had ever claimed, or hinted, not without independent proof.

Had this entire winter past been spent believing in lies? Was it _he_ that was on the wrong side in this!

He didn't know. And worst of all, he didn't see any way to find out. Too late, now, to wish that he'd killed the man that first day back from Ostagar, when Howe had smiled and handed him proof of... of everything he'd _wanted _to believe about the wardens. Proof that he thought absolved him from his guilt over Cailan's death, that had shifted the onus for it onto other men's shoulders. And he's taken the lure whole, hadn't he, swallowed it down without seeing the sharp hook hidden in it, and let that bastard Howe lead him around by the nose ever since.

He stumbled blindly to the sideboard, pulled himself a full goblet, little caring that it was of brandy and not wine.

He'd been a fool. It would only be by the Maker's own mercy if more men didn't pay for his foolishness with their lives. If all of Ferelden did not, in the end, have to pay the piper's bloody price for his mistakes.

* * *

><p>"I thought I told you to sleep," he growled at the woman standing at the far side of his desk.<p>

"I did sleep, sire. It's late afternoon," she said warily. "There is word of Anora."

"What!" he exclaimed, bolting to his feet, almost falling over as he swayed, having to catch hold of the edge of the desk to steady himself. An empty bottle clattered over on one side, thankfully remaining on the desk rather then falling to the floor. "Is she returned?"

"No, my liege," Ser Cauthrien. "But a group of men gained entrance to the alienage earlier today. They carried a pass signed by her, authorizing their entry and exit despite the quarantine. It is in the Queen's hand," she added, holding out a folded slip of paper.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, after glancing at it, then dropped it onto his desk and rubbed his hands down his face. "And the men? Who were they?"

"The wardens, sire. And companions – the elf we already knew of, and a qunari warrior. They spent most of the day in there. Unfortunately no one thought to wake me to give me word of what had happened, or to bring word of it directly to you. They have already returned back to the Arl of Redcliffe's estate. Do you wish anything done, sire?"

"No," he said, tiredly. His daughter must have lost faith in him, and allied with the rebellious Arl, he thought. And doubtless they now knew all about Howe's lovely little hobby, and the mess in the alienage, and... why did he even bother any more? It was all falling apart. There was nothing left for him to hold on to now. Nothing left but to see the end of it through, the farce brought to its inevitable conclusion.

"There is the Landsmeet tomorrow anyway, it will all be resolved there. One way or another. I am going to go to my bed and sleep, I think," he said emotionlessly, and walked away. "Good-night, Ser Cauthrien," he added as he walked away, not looking back.

There was a long silence from her. "Good-night, Teryn Loghain," she said softly when he was almost out of earshot.

It would have made him smile, had he still been capable of such.


	15. Landsmeet

He could hear Arl Eamon already pontificating as he approached the Landsmeet chamber. Eamon had clearly wasted no time in getting underway, not even waiting for all the main players to be present before starting in. He must have begun speaking as soon as a quorum of nobles was present, Loghain judged. Loghain gritted his teeth. He was going to have to carry through with this farce, though he had little heart left for it now. Too late to change his stance; it would only confuse his allies, at a time when the country had already had far too much of muddled thinking and divided rule. He would play out his part in this damned drama, and to the Black City with them all. Perhaps, when it was over, he could finally rest.

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear! _H__e_ placed us on this path, yet we should place our destiny in his hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?" Eamon was demanding as Loghain slipped quietly into the room.

He walked forward, and began slowly clapping his hands together, drawing attention away from the Arl and to himself instead. "A fine performance, Eamon, but no one here is taken in by it," he called out derisively. "You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it."

He spotted a disturbance over by the door, and spotted the two wardens slipping into the room, the elf and a second dwarf, red-headed, trailing along behind them. "The better question is, 'Who will pull the strings?' Ah! And here we have the puppeteer!" he exclaimed theatrically, gesturing to the leading dwarf. "Tell us, Warden: how _will_ the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?" he asked bitterly, the words as foul as vomit on his tongue, suspecting as he now did that they were based on lies, on wishful thinking, on Howe's manipulation of him. "Where is the famous steadfastness of the dwarves? How much did it cost the empress to buy your loyalty?"

"The Blight is the threat here, not Orlais!" the warden responded, pitching his voice to carry.

"There are enough refugees in my bannorn now to make that abundantly clear," Bann Alfstanna agreed from the audience.

"The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?" Arl Wulff asked loudly.

"The Blight is indeed real, Wulff. But do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?" Loghain asked. A question he truly wished the answer to; no one had ever yet answered to his satisfaction why any man could not do it. "They _claim_ that they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers. And once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?"

"You allowed Rendon Howe to imprison and torture innocents," Right spoke out.

"The Warden speaks truly!" Bann Sighard rose to his feet, scowling down at Loghain. "My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him... some of them are beyond any healer's skill."

"Howe was responsible for himself. He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life. As must we all," Loghain responded placatingly, then turned to glare at the dwarf. "But _you_ know that. _You_ were the one who murdered him. Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his home."

"Is there justice in selling elves to Tevinter?" Right asked, his voice calm, the words all the more shocking for the very lack of emotion in his voice.

Bann Sighard's frown deepened. "Selling elves? Explain this, Loghain!" he demanded.

Explain the unexplainable. How could he ever hope to explain the sheer madness of this lunatic arrangement of Howe's? That it had happened, without his knowledge... no, he would not shirk his responsibilities. It had happened under his command. That he had not known of it, not prevented it, that he had allowed it to happen by his ignorance... this was as much his failure as Cailan's death had been. "This is war," he began, voice husky. "Did you believe it would be like the old tales: knights with pennants flying over battlefields where all outcomes are decided simply and with honour? War is cruel. Every soul who fought alongside Maric knows this. And in it, there are no such things as innocents, only the living and the dead, and the degrees of guilt both bear. Sacrifices were made. If they were too great, the Maker will judge me for it," he said, then turned to the warden. He could not put of asking any longer. He believed Anora was alive, was possibly even somewhere now, but thoughts of that madman Howe reminded him all too sharply of his terrible fears over the past few days. "But enough of this. I have a question for you, Warden: _What have you done with my daughter?_"

"What have I done? I've protected her from _you_," the dwarf answered sharply.

"You took my daughter - our queen – by force, killing her guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her? Does she even still live?"" Loghain demanded angrily.

"I believe I can speak for myself," Anora's voice rang out. With a gasp, everyone rose to their feet, staring toward the doors in back of Loghain. He froze, back still to his daughter, his eyes dropping closed, feeling a moment of profound relief at the sound of her voice. She lived. She was _safe_.

Anora waited a moment for the worst of the astonished murmuring to fade, then resumed speaking.

"Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me. My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the hero of River Dane."

Loghain whirled, feeling equal parts astonished and infuriated at her words. He had suspected that she had changed sides, but to actually hear it, _hear_ her condemn him... Maker's breath, but it stung. And yet at the same time he felt a fiercely growing pride in his beloved daughter. _That_, for all of them who had named her his puppet since Cailan's death. No puppet, she, but a true Queen. Even as her words tore the very heart from his body, he could not help but admire her commanding presence, her regal bearing as she faced the gathered nobility of Ferelden.

"_This man_ turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn. _This man_ seized Cailan's throne before his body was cold, and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery. I would have already been _killed_, if not for this Grey Warden," she spoke out, gesturing toward the dwarf.

"The queen speaks the truth," Alistair called out.

"So the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora?" Loghain asked bitterly. "I wanted to protect you from this," he said softly, then spun back to face the lords, voice rising to echo throughout the hall again. He could see so clearly what his role was to be in this drama. If he was no longer the Hero of River Dane, then clearly he was to be the despised villain, to be beaten and cast down, his long service to Ferelden wiped away in a shower of ignominy at the end of his life. Well, he would not make it easy on them. He would play his role to the very hilt, and as long as it left a united Ferelden in his passing... he would be content. Let them hate him, if only they did not fail him, as he had failed them.

"My lords and ladies, our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded, and lost, and won times beyond counting. We Fereldans have proven that we will _never_ truly be conquered so long as we are united. We _must not_ let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself!"

The gathered lords began responding. It quickly became apparent that he had almost no support among them; between the dislike many of them had already felt for him due to his common birth, Arl Eamon's careful politicking, and the support the wardens had apparently won among the nobles over the past few days, not to mention Anora's unexpected stand against him, it was quickly clear that the mood was not in his favour.

Right glanced at Loghain. "The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain. Step down gracefully," Right said in a low whisper pitched to carry to his ears only.

Loghain shot him a venomous glare before turning on the Landsmeet. "Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?" he roared out angrily. "_You_ fought with us once, Eamon. You _cared_ about this land once. Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How _dare_ you judge me!" he thundered.

Some men ran into the chamber, drawn by the his shouting – guardsmen in his employ. But there was only a handful of them, looking lost and confused, and Ser Cauthrien was absent. He looked toward the wardens, and saw her beyond them, standing in the doorway by which they had entered, her chin high, her hands folded behind her back. So even she had deserted his cause, in the end. He could hardly blame her, not when he was deserting it himself.

"Call off your men and we'll settle this honourably," the dwarf said softly.

Loghain turned and glared at him. "Then let us end this," he spat, then continued ruefully. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this. A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me."

He looked up at the lords, raised his voice again. "Enough! Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel."

Bann Alfstanna answered calmly. "It shall be fought according to tradition: a test of arms in single combat until one party yields. And we who are assembled will abide by the outcome."

"Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion?" Loghain asked the warden, glancing beyond him to where Maric's son stood, his eyes fill with hatred. Yes, that would be a fitting end for him, would it not, cut down by the brother of the King he'd so spectacularly failed.

"I'll fight this duel myself," Right answered, to Loghain's surprise.

Loghain nodded acceptance. "It is you or me the men will follow. So let us fight for it. Prepare yourself," he said tiredly.

The crowd fell back, clearing a space. Right and Loghain slowly began to circle, eyeing each other for any sign of weakness or fault. It would be his heavy blows against the dwarf's more agile fighting style; he'd do great damage if he could connected solidly, the tricky part would be managing to hit the dwarf at all.

The fight began. He started with a war cry, but it failed to freeze the dwarf. He hadn't failed that in years; in his surprise, the dwarf slipped close and landed a stunning blow, quickly followed up by a series of punishing blows meant to cripple him. Loghain shook off the attacks, blocked a couple more with sword and shield, then went back on the offensive, the warden having to dodge his blows again and again, backing around and around the circle, darting in when he could. After several minutes Right managed to land another stunning blow, and rushed in with a flurry of blows. To his surprise Loghain was knocked right off of his feet. He looked as the warden held his sword to the his throat, both of them panting heavily from the exertion of the fight.

"I underestimated you, Warden. I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war," Loghain said quietly, his words for Right alone. "I was wrong. There's a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died."

He raised his voice, loud enough to be heard throughout the chamber, his tone resigned and bitter. "I yield."

To his surprise, the warden stepped back, drew a deep breath in relief. "I accept your surrender," he replied in an equally carrying voice.

He'd expected the dwarf to finish it right then and there. That he hadn't... shocked him.

"I didn't just hear you say that," Alistair exclaimed, staring at Right in disbelief. "You're going to let him live? After everything he's done? Kill him, already!" he shouted.

"Wait! There is another option!" a strange man called out, hobbling in from the shadows to one side where he'd apparently been all along. Loghain glared at him from where he still lay recumbent on the floor, noticing the man's strong Orlesian accent. "The teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining."

"You want to make him a Warden? Why?" Right asked, frowning. "Would that even work? He's not exactly loyal to us."

"There are _three_ of us in all of Ferelden. And there are... compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the archdemon. And what does loyalty matter? We are what we are," the man, apparently a warden as well, continued quietly. "The Joining binds us to the darkspawn. You know this. If you were to forswear your oath and flee today, you'd find yourself in the Deep Roads or the Blight-lands, given time. You'd seek them out, or they'd seek you."

Anora stepped forward and spoke, her voice pitched low enough that only Loghain and those nearby – the three wardens – could hear. "The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?" she asked, looking worriedly at her father.

He felt a faint warming in his heart at that look. At least she did not hate him. That... would have been more then he could bear. He lowered his head back to the hard stone floor, closed his eyes. Let them determine his fate. He had lost – it was over. Whether he died now, before the gathered nobles, or died later in this 'joining' they spoke of – he no longer cared. Let there just finally be an end to it all.

"Absolutely not! Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?" Alistair demanded angrily.

The dwarf sighed. "Riordan has a point, we should put him through the Joining."

"Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment! Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all! I _will not_ stand next to him as a brother. I won't!" Alistair exclaimed angrily.

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair," Right said quietly.

"Loghain is a traitor! We need him like we need to be stabbed in the back! Or have you forgotten how his being a great general didn't help the last time?" Alistair spat. "I didn't want to be king. I still don't. But... if that's what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I'll do it. I'll take the crown."

"Listen to this! Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be, putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country? You can't seriously support him!" Anora exclaimed angrily.

"I thought the two of you were going to marry?" Right asked dryly.

_That _made Loghain open his eyes again, in outright shock. The dwarf glanced at him and held out a hand, helped him to his feet as he looked back and forth between the two, feeling stunned at the revelation.

Anora was looking taken aback. She looked uncertainly at Alistair. He was ignoring her, staring at Right. "And _I_ thought you weren't going to stab me in the back. Funny how nothing ever turns out like you thought," he said bitterly.

"Alistair, compose yourself," Anora said softly.

Alistair turned and looked at her, then looked away again. "Fine. You want Loghain in the Grey Wardens so badly? Then I'll be leaving the Wardens to marry Anora," he said, voice cracking, turning an angry glare on the source of his hatred. Loghain felt his own jaw setting in response to the look. He hadn't _asked_ to be made a Grey Warden; it was being forced on him.

"You can't just stop being a Warden, Alistair," Right said gently, looking troubled.

"Watch me," Alistair said, voice hoarse, turning to stare at Right, his expression bleak.

Anora pursed her lips. "This can be discussed later. We are keeping the Landsmeet waiting," she said quietly, then turned back to face the gathered lords.

"And now, lords and ladies of Ferelden. There is still a Blight to defeat and armies to gather, and I appoint this man to lead us in both," she spoke out in carrying tones, gesturing at Right. A low murmur of approval began, swiftly riding to a low roar.

"We will _not_ allow this land to be further threatened by the archdemon," she continued, voice rising further yet. "Gather your forces and await the Warden's command. On the morrow, we shall begin our struggle against the greatest threat Ferelden has ever faced. And we shall triumph over it, for we _are_ Fereldan!"

A full-throated roar met her remarks. She stood a moment, absolutely still, head raised, then turned and looked expectantly at Alistair. He barely hesitated before offering her his arm, and the two walked out of the Landsmeet chamber together, at least simulating accord, whatever their private feelings on the matter were.

Right sighed in relief. As the nobles began filing out in turn, he turned and looked at Loghain, and the remaining warden. "Well then, let's get this over with," he said. "Do you have everything we need?"

"Yes," the man replied. "Though I will need to stop by the marketplace and pick up some things I left in the cache I mentioned to you."

"Good," the dwarf said, nodding. "Meet us at the Arl's estate; I doubt it would be politic to remain here in the palace."

The man nodded and moved off. Loghain found himself alone with the dwarf. "Who is that man?" he asked suspiciously as he watched him leave.

"Riordan, a warden from Orlais; don't worry, he's the only one who entered the country," the dwarf replied. "Follow me", he said, and turned and walked away, not even looking back to make sure that Loghain obeyed the command.

What point in resistance anyway; he'd lost, hadn't he?

* * *

><p>"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," Riordan, the Orlesian warden intoned solemnly, holding out a large silver chalice. "From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden."<p>

"I... understand," Loghain said, and accepted the cup. He stared at its loathsome contents for a long moment, then took a deep breath before tossing back the lot. It was bitter, and he could feel it burning all the way down. The burning spread, rapid as grass fire, igniting his entire body. He dimly heard the chalice ringing against the stones at his feet, knew it had dropped from nerveless fingers. Knew he was dropping as well, and could not care, other then to hope he did not wake again.

And was greatly disappointed, after a night filled with nightmares, to wake on a cot, set up in a corner of a room in the Arl of Redcliffe's Denerim estate.

Blast. He'd survived. Somewhere, some god was laughing at him, he was bitterly certain. Small wonder the elves numbered a trickster god among their pantheon. He could almost believe in Fen'Harel himself, after this.

Loghain Mac Tir – Grey Warden.


	16. Changes

He was disappointed to realize he was still alive. He had hoped to finally have an end, but it seemed the Maker had different plans for him. Or perhaps it was Fen'Harel who ruled him now, laughing somewhere in the shadows as he meddled with the life of one overly cocky shem. There would almost be poetic justice in that, given what had been done to the elves of Denerim in his name in recent days.

He lay motionless on the cot, trying to summon up the willpower to rise, to dress, to continue on with the life it seemed he was still saddled with, but failed to find the energy necessary. If he was still at the palace, there would have been so many things that needed doing... but his responsibilities had all ended quite spectacularly the day before, the moment he'd found himself flat on his back, the dwarf's sword at his throat. Someone else would have to worry about organizing and training the army, about paying the mercenaries, digging into the mess Howe had left behind, planning for... whatever else remained. No, he would not think on it, would cease worrying about it. He was merely marking time now, waiting for the death that had somehow missed him twice the day before – twice! – to notice it had missed, and finally catch up with him.

"Breakfast is ready," a voice said from nearby, calmly, and he turned his head to find the purple-haired dwarf standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the frame.

"I'm not hungry," Loghain said, dryly. A loud gurgle from his stomach promptly betrayed that he was, indeed, rather more hungry then he'd have expected.

Right snorted. "Liar," he said. "Come on, old man, get those feet moving. Breakfast first, and then we'll be heading out."

"Old man?" Loghain asked sourly, as he levered himself to his feet, wincing as muscles protested the movement. He was sore from the fight the day before, sore too from laying motionless all night, still dressed in full armour. Maker knew he'd slept in armour enough over the years that the ache from _that_ was at least a familiar one, it was still one he would rather have done without.

The dwarf flashed him a surprisingly cheerful grin. "You're acting like one. And moving like one. Prove me wrong," he said, then turned and walked away.

Loghain snorted, then rose to his feet, grimacing as he smoothed back sleep-rumpled hair and followed after the dwarf. He felt rather desperately in need of a bath, and hoped there'd be time for one before they left.

The dwarf introduced him to his new companions over breakfast.

The elf was named Zevran. His accent and self-confident attitude seemed familiar, though Loghain could not at the moment puzzle out from where. The red-haired dwarf – who seemed to be perpetually drunk – was named Oghren, and was apparently a recent self-exile from Orzammar.

The qunari was introduced as Sten, and Loghain wondered if any of the giant's companions knew that 'Sten' was his military rank, not his name. Still, he'd known enough military men who were perpetually referred to as Sarge, Captain, or Commander rather then by any given name that it was not out of place.

There was also an elderly female mage, one Wynne by name, who he vaguely recalled seeing at Ostagar the year before. Judging by the thin-lipped glare she turned on him, she didn't much care for him. Well, that was fine, he was not here to make friends, after all.

And, finally, there was a great grey-coated mabari with the unfortunately appropriate name of Stench, and an enormous living statuary, a golem that apparently answered to the name of Shale. He'd seen golems before, of course, and noted that this one seemed to be a rather small specimen of the species; closer in size to the qunari then to the behemoths he's previously encountered.

Breakfast was a serve-yourself affair from a sideboard of covered dishes, and Loghain hungrily piled a plate high with food, expecting it to be too much, only to find it was not enough and that he needed to go back to take an equally generous second. He was mildly surprised by his hunger, but then he'd been eating rather poorly in recent days, between Anora going missing, and learning about Howe, and... stop thinking about it all, he told himself. Someone else's concern, now, every last bit of it. All he had left was following orders. The dwarf's orders, apparently, that damned Orlesian warden having apparently already left, Maker only knew for what purpose.

For today, the dwarf's orders were for everyone to finish up their breakfasts, pack their things, and gather in the front hall. Loghain almost smirked, thinking how _he_, at least, did not have any things to pack; he had only the clothing and armour on his back, his sword, his shield. Nothing more; anything else that had been his remained at the palace, or in Gwaren, and he had no desire to seek out and claim any of it.

"Come with me," the dwarf told him, and led him off, stopping to exchange a few hushed words with the Sten on his way out of the dining hall. The qunari nodded, and rose to his feet, marching off somewhere as well.

He followed Right down the hallway, deep into the estate, where the private rooms for honoured guests were. Eamon had put the dwarf in one. There was a pile of things in one corner – backpacks, pouches, sacks, bedrolls – and the dwarf dug through it, quickly unearthing a sizable burlap sack. It clanked as he dragged it free. "Here, put this on," the dwarf said, holding it out to Loghain.

Loghain frowned as he untied the top and peered inside. Armour. "I already have a perfectly good set of armour," he pointed out.

"Doesn't matter. Your old gear is too recognizable, and with as many enemies as you've made for yourself recently, I'd rather not have you any easier to pick out of a crowd then necessary. Anyway, that's better armour then what you have on. Change into it. I'll be right back," he added, and walked out of the room.

Loghain sighed, and reluctantly unfastened his armour, fingers moving without thought, with the familiarity of years, from buckle to buckle. He stacked it carefully on the floor, then began pulling the new armour out of the sack, carefully examining each piece and putting it to one side. He was surprised by it; it was indeed considerably better then his own armour, made of heavily enchanted silverite. Elven work, of great antiquity, with a level of craftsmanship rarely seen in this day and age. He could only wonder where the dwarf has found such a treasure, so cavalierly hauled around in a cheap burlap sack.

He grimaced at the state of his body, wishing there was time for a bath, but clearly the dwarf was too impatient for them to be away and on the road for there to be time for that. He doesn't even have a clean change of clothes; he'll have to continue wearing the leather leggings and padded gambeson he put on yesterday, stinking faintly of sweat from his exertions at the Landsmeet yesterday, from being slept in all night. He did what he could to set them to rights, smoothing out wrinkles, tugging the hem of the gambeson straight, before he began arming himself. It was strange to be dressing in new armour; he had worn the discarded set for just over thirty years now, _his_ since stripping it off the cooling corpse of the commander of the Orlesian forces after the Battle of River Dane, where the rebellion had finally turned the tide of the occupation. He could arm himself in his _sleep_ with that set, his fingers knowing every strap, every buckle. On this new armour the buckles are in subtly different locations, the leather straps still new and stiff – they'd clearly been recently replaced – and it took effort to dress himself. He was struggling to fasten a recalcitrant side-buckle in a particularly unreachable location high up on his side when the door opened and the blond elf walked in.

Zevran gave him a coolly evaluating look, then walked over, pushed his hands out of the way, and fastened it for him.

"Thank you," Loghain said, and pulled on the gauntlets, leaving the heavy helm off for now.

The elf said nothing in response, just turned away and began gathering up scattered belongings from around the room, neatly packing them away.

Loghain realized the elf and the dwarf must be sharing the room; sharing the bed, too, at a guess. He was surprised, but only mildly. Maker knows he'd known enough men – and women – over the years who preferred lovers of the same sex as themselves. Not something he'd ever had any yearnings toward himself. Appreciate the aesthetic beauty of another man, certainly, but lust for them? No.

He rolled his shoulders and bent his head from side to side, feeling the armour settling into place. It fit considerably differently then his old set, pressed against different points of his body. The weight of it, the balance of it too, was entirely different. He subtly adjusted his posture, trying to find the most comfortable stance. Found it, then lost it, then found it again. Undoubtedly he was going to be quite sore for a few days, until he grew accustomed to the change.

The dwarf strolled back into the room, a scabbarded longsword in hand. He saw Zevran, paused and smiled warmly at him, the two exchanging a brief look almost as intimate as a kiss, before continuing over to where Loghain stood. He looked him over, nodded approvingly over the fit of the armour, then held out the sword. "Here, take this, too," he said.

Loghain frowned, then sighed and accepted the blade. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the weight of it – or rather, the _lack_ of weight. Not a metal sword, then. He partially unsheathed it, making a pleased hum at the sight of the lovely pale dragonbone blade, twisted runes carved down the length of its surface. He drew it fully, shifted his grasp on the hilt until he found the right grip, where the sword balanced just perfectly in his hand. He swung it experimentally, eyebrows rising even further at the faint keening hum it emitted as it cut through the air. By Andraste's light, he'd never held such a perfect sword before. Even Maric's dragonbone blade, salvaged in the Deep Roads so long ago, paled in comparison to this sword.

He resheathed the blade, calmly untangle his sword harness and detached his old blade, dropping it by the pile of discarded armour, and replaced it with the new one. He just hoped the dwarf didn't expect him to give up his shield as well; a present years ago from Maric, emblazoned with the red mabari of the royal crest, he would sooner cut his own throat then abandon that one item from his past.

Thankfully the dwarf did not appear to have any such designs, and after the three men had divided up the gear in the corner into loads for each to carry, they left the room. Loghain did not look back at his discarded armour and sword. They were part of his past, now. Let them lie there for some other person to pick over, to deal with, to discard if they wanted. It no longer had anything to do with _him_.

* * *

><p><strong>Why yes, I did give the keening blade to Loghain, and yes, it was <strong>_**totally**_** in tribute to Arsinoe de Blassenville's wonderful Loghain/Cousland fic "The Keening Blade"**** – I just couldn't resist having him run around with it when I had the chance.**


	17. Travel

Loghain found himself rather wondering where the group of them were off to; they'd left Denerim by the North Road, heading somewhere northwest rather then travelling southwest, toward where the darkspawn horde was.

"Where are we going?" he asked, his curiosity finally overcoming him.

"A couple of places. Orzammar, to start; we'll be passing close by it on our way around the north end of the lake anyway, and I have a couple of things I'd like to take care of there before we continue south to Redcliffe. And we'll be making another detour on the way."

"Why Redcliffe?" Loghain asked, puzzled. It seemed a rather out-of-the-way place to be heading, even if it was the home of the dwarf's main ally outside of Denerim.

"Because that's where the army is mustering; we'll meet up with everyone there."

Loghain frowned, still feeling perplexed. "But why muster _there?_ It's hardly the place where the darkspawn are most likely to attack," he pointed out dryly.

Right snorted, gave Loghain a look. "Unfortunately we didn't have much choice about where to hold the muster," he said dryly. "Seeing as there was the small matter of a civil war preventing us from gathering some place more logical."

"Point taken," Loghain said, feeling stupid for not having realized that on his own. He resumed his previous silence.

In late afternoon he was given an opportunity to see for himself just how well the warden and his companions worked together; a group of bandits decided their group looked like easy pickings. Loghain quickly slipped his shield onto his left arm, drew his new sword, and took up a defensive stance, snarling taunts at the oncoming men to lure them into concentrating on him. The other two warriors fell into step to either side of him, the elderly mage moving in behind the three, so that they formed a living shield between her and the attackers. The two rogues split off to either side, the mabari scampering along at Right's heels, all three looking for opportunities to dart in and damage their enemies. It was clearly practised moves they were all making, a formation they had used previously, though the position Loghain held now would have been the bastard's before. He was standing in another man's place once again, though at least this time it was not the shoes of a dead man he was striving to fill.

The golem, which had been trailing some distance back, thundered up to their little group, falling in protectively behind the mage. He saw fear in the bandits' eyes for the first time, as they began to realize they may have bitten off more then they could chew. It was a nasty, one-sided slaughter after that, ending with the majority of the bandits dead, only a few of the smartest or luckiest escaping into the surrounding woods.

"Fools," he muttered, and crouched down to tear a strip off cloth off the ragged tunic of one corpse, carefully wiping his blade clean before sheathing it, while the dwarfs and the elf ruthlessly searched the corpses for anything worth salvaging. Prudent of them, he thought approvingly.

* * *

><p>The group made camp, something they were obviously as well-practised at as their fighting. He stood still for a few minutes, watching as they efficiently assembled a firepit, began gathering firewood, and fetching water, the elf sorting through backpacks and setting out ingredients for a meal. Loghain did not like feeling useless, and asked Right if they had a spare bow.<p>

"Might. What do you want it for?"

"Hunting. There should be game around here somewhere," he responded.

The dwarf nodded, and went sorting through their gear, soon turning up a surprisingly fine bow, as well as a quiver full of arrows.

Loghain's eyebrows rose at the quality of the bow. "Very nice," he said, running a hand appreciatively along its curved shape. He quickly divested himself of his armour, leaving himself clad in just wool leggings, leather stockings, and padded gambeson. He strung the bow, slung the quiver over his back, and headed out into the forest, slightly surprised that the dwarf was not insisting he either stay in camp or be accompanied, but appreciative of the chance for privacy.

He could almost relax enough to truly enjoy the hunting, and found himself thinking how long it had been since he last did something like this. Years. Before Maric sailed away and died, that last visit the two of them had made to Gwaren together, slipping away from their guards – foolish of them, yes, but they'd both needed a break. They'd had a comfortable day together, briefly reliving their long-ago youth, when it had been just the two of them, not yet quite friends, travelling alone together in search of the rebel encampment. He remembered the shock and exultation the rebels had displayed at Maric's unexpected return, when they'd thought him dead at his mother's side.

So many times Maric had been thought dead, even in just the few years of the rebellion... Small wonder he'd never been able to believe that Maric _was_ dead, when there was no more evidence for it now then there'd been after Queen Moira's death, after their disappearance following the disastrous battle at West Hill, after Maric snuck off with the Grey Wardens into that mysterious expedition into the Deep Roads. One of the few secrets he'd never divulged to Loghain was just what had occurred on that trip, beyond the fathering of a bastard son.

In a small clearing not far from where they are setting up camp he spied some rabbits browsing, and was pleased when his skills with a bow proved still good enough to feather two of them before they could escape down into their warren of burrows. He carried the limp bodies back to camp and skinned and cleaned them, the mabari making short work of the guts, before handing them over to the elf to add to the pot for that night's meal.

Some time later, while he sat and stared into the flames of their fire, the dwarf appeared at his side, two plates heaped high with rabbit stew in hand, and offered one to him. He grunted in thanks and accepted it, eating hungrily, surprised by his appetite. A day spent mainly in walking and some fighting had taken more energy then he'd have believed possible; clearly he was still out of shape from all the time spent either lost in drink or sitting behind a desk this last year.

"How well did you know Maric?" the dwarf asked curiously, sitting down beside him and starting in on his own plate of stew.

Loghain gazed at him silently for a long moment, then gave an infinitesimal shrug and looked away. "He was my friend. If he'd wanted to conquer the Fade, I would have led the charge."

"How did you meet him?"

The faintest ghost of a smile touched his face for a moment, as he remembered that first fateful meeting in the night. "I was hunting – well, poaching, to be entirely honest – when a boy my own age came stumbling out of the woods. He was so dirty, you'd have thought he'd been dug up out of the ground. He was running away from the traitorous boot-lickers who'd just murdered the queen. Though I didn't know it at the time. He was bloody, exhausted, and obviously being hunted. I offered to take him to my father's camp. I didn't find out who he was for a while, though."

Right looked at him curiously. "That's it? That's the whole story?"

"I know a bard would make it out to be better, but it isn't a story to me," Loghain answered quietly, intently. " I _lived _it. There were no heroes or villains, no great deeds, no endings, happy or otherwise."

"What made Maric such a great king?" the dwarf asked. It was only the honest curiosity in his voice that made Loghain attempt an answer. There was no simple answer to that question, just as Maric had been no simple man.

"There are men who inspire such devotion that everyone around would lay down their lives for him. And there are men who come and go from this world, and no one notes it," Loghain said, softly, voice on the edge of hoarseness as he thought of his friend, his king, his master. "What makes them so? Your guess is as good as mine. Maric was remarkable; that's all I can say of him."

Zevran walked over just then and split the remainder of the stew between their two plates. Loghain frowned, noticing that he and Right were the only two to receive seconds. "Extra rations for the Wardens?" he asked, raising an eyebrow ironically. "Special privilege?"

"No. Necessity. You'll notice in the days to come that we need considerably more food then non-Wardens. What would adequately feed the rest of our companions would be slow starvation for us."

"Ah," Loghain said softly. So that explained his ravenous appetite since waking this morning. "And what other wonderful changes can I expect to learn of in the days to come?" he asked sourly.

"Nightmares; pretty nasty ones, especially now that the archdemon is on the move," Right said grimly. "And you can sense the darkspawn; they can sense you too. We'll be magnets for any in the area. Which at least has the advantage of attracting them to those best able to deal with them. Long term changes... well, let's not worry about those until we actually survive this Blight."

Loghain grunted. "A good plan," he agreed. "I'm turning in."

He added his plate to the pile of them by the fire, then walked over to where he'd left his pile of gear earlier, wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down, still armoured. Nightmares. He snorted softly. They'd have to be something pretty remarkable to beat the nightmares he'd been having on his own since Ostagar. Ignoring the throbbing of his head – he'd had little to drink today, save a glass of watered wine with each meal – he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.


	18. Challenges

Loghain began carrying the bow as they walked each day, and occasionally managed to bag some game for their evening meal at some point during the day. He was relieved that the party members seemed willing to leave him to himself, by and large. The dwarf made a point out of talking to him at least a couple of times a day, but never for long, and, perhaps most importantly, didn't _pry_.

The mabari took to walking alongside him for much of each day's march, which pleased him rather more then he'd have expected, bringing back memories of the mabari he'd owned – and been owned by, as much as anything – in his youth. He sometimes found himself talking quietly to the hound, telling him stories of Adalla, what little odds and ends he could remember after all those years ago. It was... soothing, the attentive way the hound listened to him, wagging its tail or making sounds – whuffling, growls, barks, whines – at appropriate points in the stories. Most foreigners didn't understand why Fereldans were so close with their hounds, but then few foreigners had ever spent much time talking to one.

He was surprised – and, he had to admit, more then a little pleased – to note that the two foreigners in their party treated Stench with the respect he was due. The hound would often spend part of each day with the qunari, and the Sten was clearly showing the hound the grave respect that was due him, as well as talking to him like the intelligent being he was. Surprising.

The elf also spoke easily with the hound, with what Loghain could only think of as _friendly rivalry_ between the two. He wondered if the elf was aware of just how lucky he was that the hound was accepting of his relationship with the mabari's dwarf. He suspected he was; whatever else he might be, the elf was not a fool, though he was obviously doing his best to make himself seem harmless and foolish. Not something Loghain believed in the least, not after having seen him fight, nor having seen the wary way he eyed _everything_, all the time, always aware of where everyone was, and what was happening around him.

He was beginning to think he knew why the elf had seemed so... familiar. Unless he was much mistaken, the elf was the very Antivan Crow that Howe had arranged for him to hire to kill the wardens. He wondered if Howe had ever known, then recalled him referring to the "treacherous elf" when they'd been in the Pearl, and realized he must have. Interesting, that he'd never mentioned to Loghain that the assassin had lived, and gone over to the other side, rather then being killed when he's attack on the wardens had presumably failed. Probably because the news would have made Howe look bad for having essentially supplied the opposition with a supremely talented killer. The fool.

* * *

><p>They were most of the way to Ostagar when the dwarf finally began to question him about his actions of the past years. He'd stopped expecting it by then, which made it even more of a shock, especially given the particular event that Right brought up.<p>

The two of them were taking a turn at cleaning up the supper dishes, Loghain washing while the dwarf dried and put away.

"Ostagar," the dwarf suddenly said, his voice hesitant.

Loghain froze for a half second, then glanced at the dwarf. "What about it?" he asked in clipped tones. Maker, he didn't want to think of that night. It haunted him in nightmares still, more painful even then the memories of Maric's death. At least the storm at sea that was presumed to have killed him hadn't been anything that _Loghain_ could have prevented...

"_Why_," the dwarf demanded, voice harsh and uncertain. "Alistair and I _lit the beacon, why did you leave!_ Why did you abandon Cailan and the army to their deaths..."

Loghain surged to his feet, the plate he'd been scrubbing dropping from nerveless fingers, the tin clanging faintly as it bounced off a stone and into the stream. Loghain felt a surge of anger pounding through him, making his hands shake and his vision narrow, his head ache.

"Did you think I _wanted_ to?" he snarled, voice harsh. "Cailan was the son of the two people I loved most in this life. I helped raise him! He was my daughter's husband, and my king!" He fell silent a moment, jaw clenching as he struggled to contain his emotions. He felt the surge of anger fading, leaving him feeling weak and bloodless instead.

"We had our differences, I won't pretend that all was ever smooth between the two of us," he continued in a softer tone of voice, mind filling with memories of the boy. The golden prince. "He was careless, impetuous, easily swayed by visions of glory... he was never going to be the king his father had been, but... no one could do that. _Be_ that."

He drew a deep, shaky breath. Said what he'd never acknowledged aloud to any other. "But I loved him." Loved him, almost as much as he'd loved Maric, loved Rowan. How could he _not _love their child, especially when he'd damn near raised the boy himself, in the wake of Rowan's death, which had left Maric a broken, bitter man for far too many years. The closest thing to a son he'd ever had, would ever have, and he'd _failed him_.

"And the damned fool wouldn't listen to a word I said, he _insisted_ on being in the vanguard, insisted on having those thrice-cursed Grey Wardens at his side, as if their mere presence would render him invulnerable to the usual accidents of battle." He turned away, staring into the forest across the stream, eyes seeing a scene months ago and far away. He spoke again, voice a hoarse whisper of sound. "There was far more darkspawn then we'd expected, then even our worst case planning for that battle had allowed for. As soon as the battle started, I knew it would be a close-run thing to pull off, but my king had given me my orders and I was going to fulfil them. I watched that tower, _prayed _for that damned beacon to light up, and... nothing happened. For far too long, nothing happened. And in the end, it was... too late. Far, far too late to attempt anything but to retreat, and salvage what men I could from that mess."

He turned and looked at the dwarf. "I've done many hard things in my life. Given up... more things, more _people_, then I would wish on any but my worst enemies. And one of the very hardest things I have ever had to do was to walk away from a battle I knew I couldn't win. Do not think that it was an _easy_ or a _convenient _decision for me to abandon the field at Ostagar. But it was the only _sane_ thing I _could_ do. Revile me for it all you wish; given the same circumstances today, I would do the exact same thing. Or... perhaps, disobey my orders, and attempt a rescue before it became too late. Except I did that once before, and hundreds paid with their lives, that Maric might live."

"The Battle of West Hill," Right said quietly, surprising him.

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "You know your history well. Better then many Fereldans do. Better then I'd have expected from a casteless Orzammar dwarf, whom I gather are not exactly known for their scholarship."

The dwarf shrugged. "I've been studying history for months, among other subjects; I can hardly lead my group effectively, or make decisions, if I'm not familiar with the issues and people involved."

He snorted. "That sounds to me like the wisdom of bitter experience. Something I am, unfortunately, not entirely unfamiliar with myself," he said, then looked down at the dishes lying abandoned in the stream. With a sigh, he lowered himself to his knees again, resumed cleaning them, then frowned, and gave the dwarf a questioning look.. "How is it that Alistair came to be wearing what looked remarkably like his brother's armour at the Landsmeet?"

"It was King Cailan's armour," Right answered, simply. "Last winter, while roaming around – lost, I have to admit – we found ourselves back in the vicinity of Ostagar. We investigated the ruins..." he trailed off for a moment, then glanced over at Loghain, who was studiously concentrating on scrubbing out the stew pot. "We found the armour being worn by some of the darkspawn we killed; a piece here, a piece there, like they'd shared it out among themselves. Other things, too – Duncan's sword and dagger, still buried in the chest of the ogre that we guess must have killed him; I don't think he'd have left his weapons behind in it otherwise. Maric's sword, in a chest in the remains of Cailan's tent."

Loghain realized he'd frozen as listened to the dwarf's words. He could imagine – all too easily imagine – what a horror the battlefield must have been by then. Even in winter, with the worst obscenities covered by snow. He'd been on too many fields – usually as the victor – to have any illusions about what a charnel pit Ostagar would have been after the darkspawn victory,

"We found Cailan's body, too," the dwarf continued, softly. "We... burned it. Scattered the ashes."

Loghain's head bowed. He was only briefly tempted to ask about... how the boy had died. What condition his corpse had been in. Memory and imagination and his nightmares supplied all too many possible answers as it was. Better to think of the ending. That his prince had at least had a proper pyre, in the end, the ashes scattered, as was right. "Thank you for that," he said softly, voice hoarse. "It... bothered me, that he, like his father, had left no body for a proper funeral. None we could reach, anyway," he added bitterly. He settled back on his haunches, hands hanging limply. "I said a moment ago that retreating from Ostagar was the only sane decision I could make at the time. I sometimes fear that it was the last sane decision I have made since that day."

He bent forward, then rose to his feet again, clean plates and pot stacked in his hands. "Let us talk of something else. Or better yet, not talk at all."

Right nodded understandingly. "Help me dry and pack those, then."

They remained silent all the way back to camp. Loghain turned in early, wrapped in memories of his golden prince.


	19. Interlude

They arrived at Orzammar in mid-afternoon sunlight a couple of days later. Right went off on his own to take care of some errands he wanted to get done, and detailed Oghren to take the rest of the party and find lodgings for them. Loghain looked around curiously as he followed along behind the warrior. It was over a decade since he'd last been in Orzammar himself, when Maric had brought a then-teenaged Cailan here to meet his fellow ruler, King Endrin Aeducan. Maric had spent several days in intense trade negotiations with the dwarfs, while Loghain had ended up escorting the young prince all over the city – everywhere except for Dust Town and the mines, at least – to sight-see. He remembered how enthralled Cailan had been by it all, and how seriously he'd approached the task of buying a small gift to bring back to Denerim for Anora. He'd bought... what had had it been... some article of jewellery. A brooch? That sounded right.

And they'd attended a Proving, of course, held in honour of the Theirin pair, Maric and Endrin with their heads together drinking and joking and only paying enough attention to the fights for politeness, while Cailan had all but hung over the rail, watching in astonished envy and wishing he could take part in the games. Loghain had brought him back the next morning, by special arrangement, and he'd been allowed to spar in the arena with several of the king's own best fighters. His eyes had shone so brightly...

Loghain swallowed and returned his thoughts to the present. They'd reached a door down one of the dim side-passages off the main throughfare, and Oghren was knocking loudly on it with the hit of his sword. A small panel in the door snapped open, he heard a brief string of profanity, then it closed and the door opened, a stout dark-haired male dwarf popping out to exchange arm buffets and a back-slapping hug with their companion.

"Heard you'd turned surfacer on us, Oghren," the other dwarf exclaimed, grinning widely, showing off a wide expanse of gleaming white teeth, one incisor shining gold.

"Yeah, well, after what happened with the wife..." Oghren shrugged. "Didn't seem much point in staying here any more. Anyway, I'm travelling with that Grey Warden now."

"The duster? Heard he's something pretty special in a fight."

"Yeah, that's the son-of-a-nug. We need some rooms, if you've got any free."

The dwarf snorted. "Damn place is standing near empty, so many have gone off for this damned war up above already. How many rooms you want?" he asked, running an appraising eye over the part. "Oh, hey, nice golem."

Shale snorted and folded her arms, giving the dwarf a wary look.

"Three should do us. A single bed, a double, and a room with three singles. Or two doubles and a single, come to think of it, I'll fit in a single but you can see how tall some of the blasted surfacers get," Oghren pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward where Sten and Loghain stood.

"Must be the lack of a proper stone roof overhead," the dwarf muttered. "Yeah, two doubles might do better, or they'll run out of room for all that leg. Come on in, I'll see what I can arrange."

They ended up having to help re-arrange some furniture. Moving all but one single bed out of what was normally a 6-single dormitory room and a couple of doubles in, but in the end they had rooms suitable for their whole part. Wynne and Shale put their things in the room with the single, Zevran piled his and Right's belongings in the double, and Oghren, Sten and Loghain got the former dormitory.

"Might as well head on over to Tapsters and get on the outside of some food and drink," Oghren suggested. The others agreed, except for Shale, who preferred to head up to the Diamond Quarter and spend some time in the Shaperate. They left Stench behind to look after their things, not that it was actually needed, but the hound wasn't likely to be welcomed in the tavern.

They ate well, the meal built around strips of nug fried with mushrooms with a side of roasted root vegetables, all of the companions except Wynne digging into it without complaint. She, it seemed, did not much care for the thought of eating nug after having seen one of the creatures on the way to the bar.

"Better then what we had to eat in the Deep Roads," Zevran said darkly. "I will be quite happy to eat nug... at least it is not deep stalker."

"Or spider," Oghren said, making a face.

Zevran shuddered theatrically. "Do not remind me. Believe me, my dear Wynne, there are far worse things to eat then nug. At least the little naked bunny-pigs taste like real food."

She gave in and tried it, and had to admit the flavour was 'not unpleasant'. After the meal they ordered more drink, and waited for Right to arrive.

Loghain sat back, nursing his drink and listening quietly as the others talked. It was almost... relaxing. He could forget for a while the ongoing disaster of the last year, and just enjoy sitting there, safe and ignored and not needing to make any decisions or contribute anything to the conversation, listening as Oghren, Sten and Zevran traded reminiscences of their previous journey to the dwarven kingdom and their travel through the Deep Roads.

"I think the worst part of the whole trip was seeing the archdemon," the elf said after a while.

Loghain looked up, startled. "You've actually seen the archdemon?"

"Yes," the Sten said. "At a place called the Dead Trenches. It had gathered together a vast army of darkspawn, and was there to lead them out of the Deep Roads. We had only a brief look of it before it flew away."

"That was bad," Oghren agreed. "The two wardens keeled over after it flew away. Was a couple hours before they finally woke up again; by then the dragon and its army were long gone. But I think the broodmother was way worse then the blighted archdemon. We had to _fight_ her."

"Broodmother?" Loghain asked, puzzled. "And what is a broodmother?"

Zevran and Oghren shuddered, exchanging equally disturbed looks. Sten pressed his lips together, frowning unhappily. "I will tell you later," Zevran said softly. "It is... not something to speak of here."

Loghain frowned, but forbear to press for further explanation. The companions made a pointed effort to change the subject after that, talking of other parts of their adventures over the last year, Loghain learning snippets about the relief of Redcliffe, the fight through Kinlock Hold, an encounter with werewolves in the Brecilian Forest.

"That's where we got that fancy armour you're wearing." Oghren informed him. "In the ruins there. Damned nice stuff."

"Alistair only got to wear it for a couple weeks," Zevran observed. "From Redcliffe until the Landsmeet. He looks better in the other set anyway, the gold it brings out his eyes. And his hair."

Loghain snorted softly. The boy _had_ looked good in Cailan's gold-washed armour. Regal. Like the king he would someday be, married to Anora once this Blight was dealt with. Loghain felt something ease inside him slightly at the thought. Maric's blood on the throne again. Yes. That was something worth hoping for, working toward.

He raised his head to find the elf looking at him, a slight smile on his lips. Then right was there, greeting them all, a smile stretching his lips into a wide grin, calling for more food to be brought – they'd been there all afternoon, and might as well eat dinner there as well before leaving – and then they headed back to the quarters Oghren had found for them, to spend a quiet evening in maintaining their gear.

* * *

><p>The next day they finally got around to what was the apparently the point of their visit here, a brief audience with King Harrowmont followed by a stop to visit with Right's family. Loghain was mildly surprised to find that the casteless dwarf had a mother and sister living in the noble quarter, until he heard mention of an Aeducan nephew and divined that Right's sister must have been a successful – what <em>did<em> the dwarves call them again – oh, yes, a successful noble hunter. One who'd apparently landed one of Endrin's three sons before their deaths.

Right's visit was not exactly welcomed with open arms by his family, but Loghain could tell there was some variety of affection in the brief conversation he had with the drink-taken dwarf matron who was apparently his mother. And more then a little air of meeting the prospective family in how Right introduced Zevran to her. It was only then Loghain noticed a small detail about the pair that had escaped him earlier, that the pair were sporting a pair of earrings, unmatched yet still somehow similar, that they'd not had on the day before, the piercings still fresh enough to be reddened and swollen. Apparently 'meeting the in-laws' was exactly what the occasion was.

Afterwards they collected Shale at the Shaperate, exited Ozammar, and continued their briefly-interrupted journey.

"Dare I ask where we're going to next?" Loghain asked as they walked back down the pass toward the distant highway.

"Dragon hunting," the warden said, firmly.

Loghain blinked. "Did I hear you correctly? Dragon hunting! Don't we have better things to do with our time?"

Right glanced up at him. "If you can think of better practise for killing an archdemon, I'd love to hear it," he said.

Loghain frowned, then sighed. "Point taken," he said, and remained silent the rest of that day.

* * *

><p>Their journey was largely uninteresting for several days after that, apart from encountering a force of dwarfs being attacked by darkspawn and giving them some assistance in defeating them. Much more challenging then the bandits outside of Denerim had been, and it gave their small group a better chance at adjusting to their differing fighting styles, the group as a whole having to adjust to the difference between how Loghain fought and how Alistair had fought; only subtle differences, thankfully, but there none-the-less.<p>

Their ultimate destination proved to be a small village up in the mountains that Loghain had never heard of – some backwater place named Haven – and he had Right show him where on his maps it should be marked.

As they climbed the final winding pathway to Haven a couple of days later, the group seemed surprised to see a guard standing watch at the head of the trail. The guard seemed equally startled to see them, his mouth gaping open in surprise, then he yelled, grabbed the bow off his back, and fired at them, thankfully missing.

Loghain cursed, pulled out his own bow, and sent an arrow winging in return, with much deadlier aim; it sank into the man's unprotected throat, killing him.

"What was that about?" Loghain asked as they walked up to the corpse.

"They don't like me much here," Right explained shortly.

"Possibly because we killed pretty much the entire town the last time we were here," the elf pointed out, grinning affably.

"It appears we missed one or two," Sten said solemnly, glancing down at the corpse.

"Dare I ask why you saw fit to slaughter an entire village?" Loghain asked dryly as they climbed the hillside from the lower reaches of the sprawling village after determining that the houses there seemed to be uninhabited.

"They attacked us; they were dragon cultists, and had already killed a number of Arl Eamon's knights who had come here in search of Andraste's ashes. We found one of the bodies. It was... not a pretty sight. I'm not sure if they butchered them as food for the dragonlings, or practised cannibalism themselves..." Right said, trailing off with a grimace. "You can fill in the picture yourself, I'm sure."

"Quite," Loghain quietly agreed.

As they reached a clearing with additional buildings halfway up the path they encountered a second villager, a woman, who screamed and fled at the sight of them. They declined to pursue her, and instead proceeded cautiously further up the path, but saw no one else.

Right didn't allow any of them to relax until they were well up the mountain toward where he said a ruined temple lay, Haven well out of sight far below, the snow-drifted path in front of them devoid of any signs that anyone had travelled along it any time recently. They didn't stop to rest until they'd reached the temple itself, an impressive structure even half-destroyed and buried under a mountain of snow and ice as it was. They set up camp in a defensible side-chamber off the main room. Everyone was very quiet that evening, most of the group seemingly lost in thoughts of their previous visit here. Loghain was curious to hear more of it, but didn't push for details, preferring to respect their silence as they'd so far respected his.


	20. Bonding

The encounter with the dragon on top of the mountain proved long, difficult, and dangerous, but thankfully not impossible. It was one of the worst possible foes Loghain had ever encountered in a learning-by-doing situation, and for a while there he was wondering if the group was going to be able to pull it off. Bad enough the sheer size of the beast, but the gust from its flapping wings was enough to bowl over the more light-weight members of their party. And it breathed fire. And there was no safe side of it to attempt approaching; it could kick freely in any direction, lash out with head or tail, buffet with its heavy wings.

In the end, Loghain managed to slip in close and clamber up on top of its neck, clinging to the long scale-spines there. The dragon snaked its head around frantically, almost tossing him free, but he managed to recover his hold at the last minute and regain his seat behind its head. He locked his legs around its neck, as if riding a horse, raised his sword in both hands, and plunged in into the dragon's skull. It gave a final shriek, and collapsed to the ground, the impact sending Loghain tumbling away.

He rolled to his feet, clearly winded, but with sword in hand, ready to attack again if the dragon still lived. But that final blow had done it; the dragon was dead, its foul-smelling ichor a spreading stain on the stone.

Loghain groaned and dropped down to his knees, pressing one hand to his side. Wynne hurried over, lips pursed with disapproval, and soon had him peeled out of his breastplate, her hands glowing with healing energies as she fixed the worst of the damage he'd taken in the fight; cracked ribs and torn muscles, she tartly informed him. Once he'd been taken care of she made the rounds of the remainder of the group, doing what she could for them; not a one hadn't taken injury of some kind in the fight.

They camped right there, too tired to seek a more comfortable spot, the elf preparing a hot meal for them in a pot half-submerged in one of the hot springs that dotted the plateau. They were sitting around eating when the dwarf suddenly jerked upright, staring in surprise at the far side of the plateau. "It's gone," he exclaimed.

"What's gone?" Loghain asked, frowning.

"The entrance to the Gauntlet, where the Urn of Sacred Ashes was – it was right over there," Right said, gesturing with his bread and melted cheese to a small cut in the mountainside that passed directly under the ledge where the dragon had been.

Nothing would do but they all go over and take a look. Where they told him a massive carved entranceway had been on their previous visit was now a tumble of rock, a massive slide that looked like it had been there for ages, judging by the lichen and weathering.

Zevran grinned. "I guess we do not need to worry about Brother Genitivi bringing chantry scholars here," he pointed out. "The Urn seems capable of defending itself from casual intruders."

Right nodded agreement. "They'll still be excited about that temple complex, I'm sure," he said. "But I'm glad they won't be able to disturb the Urn itself."

They returned to their fire, and spent the rest of the evening talking about the fight with the dragon; what had worked, what hadn't, what had seemed to be its weak spots.

The golem shook its head ponderously over its own part in the fight. "I was of little use to it," Shale said. "I could withstand the dragon's breath, but am not nimble enough to dodge its blows, and standing back and throwing rocks at the beast seemed more likely to damage it and its companions then to damage the dragon. As enjoyable as the thought of accidentally squishing the painted elf is, I doubt that would improve the fight."

Zevran and Right had managed to do reasonable amounts of damage once they got used to dodging the legs and tail and staying well back from the dangerous jaws, while Sten, Oghren and Loghain had all fared well in the fight as well. Stench, on the other hand, was still limping from the injuries that had taken him out early in the fight; he lacked the armour of the warriors and was small and light enough that he'd been sent flying every time the dragon flapped its wings.

Wynne was also displeased about her performance in the battle; while her healing spells had been of some use in the early stages while they were learning to combat the dragon, by the end of the fight they hadn't been much needed, and her combat magic had proven almost useless on the dragon; its natural resistance to such was just too high for her to be very effective against it. She suspected it would be even worse against the archdemon itself.

"Well, at least this detour has done what it was supposed to do," Right said tiredly. "We've all got a much better idea now of how to handle fighting the archdemon, anyway. Tomorrow we're off to Redcliffe."

* * *

><p>Loghain was surprised to find himself actually feeling <em>comfortable<em> with his companions over the coming days, as they travelled toward Redcliffe. He still wasn't sure how trustworthy any of them were individually, but as a group... he trusted them to be at his back in a fight. More, he trusted them to perform their roles in a fight well, to do what needed to be done. For all their seeming eccentricity, they were, he decided, a remarkable group. That they might succeed in killing the archdemon, ending the blight... he wouldn't have believed it before seeing the dogged determination and ruthless focus, the casual dismissal of personal injury with which they had approached killing that dragon. Now, he could at least believe it was _possible_, that the group of them might succeed in killing the archdemon, might finally set Ferelden back to rights.

For the first time in far, far too long, _hope_ returned to his life. And deeper fear, that his hope would prove ill-founded, but he clung desperately to the feeling, not willing to abandon it, not after a year spent spiralling down into ever-deeper despair.

With the change in his own attitude, he began actively trying to fit better in with his chance-met companions, to find his own place within their tight-knit fraternity outside of battle, even spending time talking to the qunari, drawing him out into a discussion on two-handed weapon technique. He began joining in the nightly sparring matches that they partook in any evening that the camp had a suitable spot that was large enough, and was amazed anew at the skill of each of the party members. He and Right, with their taint-given strength and speed and stamina were almost frightening in their effectiveness as fighters, but the non-wardens in the group were all supremely skilled examples of their type, and gave the pair of them a hard workout.

* * *

><p>They were a day out of Redcliffe. Loghain spotted Right leaving their encampment, climbing a nearby hill. He hesitated only a few minutes before following him away, realizing he wanted a chance to speak privately with the senior warden before they were plunged back into the maelstrom the next day. He finally relocated him sitting on a log on top of the hill, staring off into the darkness, and made a point of stepping on a twig, the snap of it warning the dwarf that he was approaching before he emerged from the bushes. Right looked up curiously at him as Loghain took a seat near him on the log.<p>

"I want to thank you," Loghain said after sitting in silence for a minute.

"For what?"

"For ridding me of that bloodthirsty weasel, Rendon Howe," Loghain said.

Right raised an eyebrow. "You seemed put out with me at the Landsmeet for having murdered him, as you put it."

Loghain snorted. "Please. He was my ally; the lords would have expected no less. And I could hardly applaud your actions when I was trying to turn people against you," he pointed out dryly.

He picked up a twig and sketched in the dirt with it at his feet for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. "I think one of my biggest regrets will always be that I didn't slit his throat myself when I returned from Ostagar, and found out what he'd been up to – the slaying of the Cousland family being just one of the better-known examples," he added, letting his distaste for the man leak into his voice. "Many of my decisions this past year would have been very... different, if not for his influence," he continued after a moment. "Better, I would hope. But he was my only ally, and I was in desperate need of any help I could get, if it would only save Ferelden."

He suddenly stopped his idle sketching, broke the twig in fragments and flung them away. "I find myself wondering how many potential allies I had that he made sure never reached me," he added bitterly. "The man was nothing if not ambitious."

The dwarf bit his lip for a moment. "I... suspect you're right about that," he said as neutrally as he could. "Were you aware that he had Vaughan Kendalls locked up in his own dungeon? And was torturing Oswyn, the son of Bann Sighard?"

Loghain's lips pressed together in a thin line for a moment. "No, I wasn't," he answered in clipped tones, then frowned. "What possible reason could he have for torturing Sighard's son..."

"I suspect it was for his personal pleasure," Right told him. "He'd captured the young man after Oswyn started questioning the disappearance of his milk-brother, a veteran of Ostagar. Just locking him up would have been sufficient to deal with that. _Torturing_ him was excessive."

He nodded, scowling. "And you say he also had Bann Vaughan imprisoned? What happened to him?"

The dwarf shrugged. "I slit his throat for him."

Loghain turned and stared at him, shocked, and not sure he'd heard what he had. "You _what!_" he demanded.

"He was Rendon Howe writ small," Right answered calmly. "A nasty little ferret to Howe's bloodthirsty weasel. I think the only thing that prevented them from being allies and wrecking even worse havoc then Howe did alone was that Vaughan had something Howe wanted. I didn't think Ferelden needed a second Howe," he said grimly. "Not after what I'd already seen in the dungeons, and heard of Vaughan's character from a prisoner that had been there since before Howe took over. Locking Vaughan up may well have been the one unintentional good deed Howe did this past year."

The dwarf frowned off into the darkness for a minute, then turned to Loghain. "Is it true you and Howe were planning to kill Anora, and frame the murder on either the Grey Wardens or Arl Eamon?" he asked.

"_**WHAT!**_" Loghain roared, feeling himself flush with rage.

"That's the story her maid, Erlina, brought to us at the Arl's estate. That Howe was holding Anora, and had let slip that the pair of you were considering killing her for political advantage," Right explained coolly.

Loghain let loose a string of vile curses, followed by exacting descriptions of just what tortures he would have liked to visit on Howe if he'd yet lived. It was several minutes before he finally wound down and went silent again, scowling in thought. Finally he turned to look at Right. "Is _this_ what you meant at the Landsmeet when you said you'd been protecting my own daughter from me?" he demanded.

"Yes. Though in retrospect I don't think Howe would really have killed her. He certainly had ambitions to be the power behind the throne – with her in his hands, how hard would have been for him to become the power _on_ the throne instead? Especially if he found a way to dispose of you without losing his own power in the process."

Loghain felt his blood drain away for a moment at the thought. Maker, yes, he could imagine that lying ambitious weasel planning _exactly_ that, forcing Anora into a political marriage and making himself _King_, not just Arl or Teryn. He loosed another lengthy string of vituperation, not for the first time wishing he could resurrect the man's corpse and kill him himself. Creatively.

As he was winding down, Zevran appeared out of the shadows, a plump wineskin swinging from one hand. "I've been taking notes," he said blithely. "That bit with the glass splinters and salted vinegar sounds particularly nasty. Careful with this, it's some of Oghren's White Shear, not wine," he added as he dangled the wineskin in front of Loghain.

Loghain snarled and grabbed the skin, removing the stopple and squirting a sizable portion into his mouth, swallowing it without even coughing before handing the skin to Right, who took a much smaller drink of it.

"Oghren let you walk off with his White Shear?" Right asked, raising his eyebrows.

Zevran grinned. "I neglected to ask. Besides, he doesn't need so much, now that he's drinking so much less."

"A dwarf? Drinking less? Is that even possible?" Loghain blurted, the strong drink already having an effect on his control of his tongue.

Zevran laughed. "Right won't let him come along on our little adventures when he is drunk," he explained. "And fighting is always more fun then drinking."

Loghain snorted, and reclaimed the skin for another drink. Zevran sat down cross-legged on the ground, leaning back against Right's legs.

"You're that assassin Howe had me hire, aren't you?" Loghain asked, eyeing him sourly.

Zevran grinned and nodded in response.

Loghain snorted again. "I don't suppose the Crows give refunds when their men switch sides? As I recall, hiring you was rather dreadfully expensive."

"Unfortunately not. Though they'll still try and take it out of my hide any time they catch up to me," Zevran said.

"Good thing you have friends who'd prefer that your hide stay in one piece," Right pointed out fondly.

"Yes. And hopefully it will be a while yet before they realize Taliesen failed, and that I am still at large," Zevran agreed. "I would prefer not to be dodging yet more Crows on our way to kill the archdemon."

Loghain gave him a puzzled look. "The Crows are trying to kill you?"

Zevran nodded. "Both of us, really. Our dear friend Right because the contract on him is still open, and myself because our retirement package is _garbage_ - the only way to leave the Crows is as a dead Crow. As you can see I am rather distressingly still alive. Distressing to them, that is, I am quite pleased at still being alive myself. At some point the Crows will hopefully get tired of the truly astonishing numbers of bodies we leave behind us every time they try to kill us, and decide that killing us is more trouble then its worth."

Loghain frowned. "Just how many Crows have you killed?" he asked.

Zevran's forehead creased in thought. "Well, if you count the trainees and junior Crows I had along for that very poorly planned ambush, it was... let me think... at least 20 by now, isn't it?" he asked Right.

Right shrugged. "About that, yes. I think we killed at least twelve when Taliesen tried, anyway, and you had... what, seven or eight? And I suspect a few of those bandits we've encountered over the past year were more then just bandits, too; some of them fought too well."

"Twelve against... what, seven of you?" Loghain asked, thinking the odds weren't too bad, even if it had been Crows.

Zevran shook his head. "Twelve against _two_," he corrected.

"Three, you're forgetting we had the dog along," Right corrected him in turn.

"Twelve against_ three_," Loghain said carefully. "And yet they _didn't_ manage to kill you?"

Zevran chuckled, and took another swig from the wineskin. "We, my friend, are _ridiculously awesome_," he solemnly informed Loghain.

Right nodded, reclaiming the skin for another drink as well. "That wasn't even the worst fight I've been in, either. It's too bad you weren't available to go with Alistair and I the next night, Zev – that was when Alistair and I – and Stench! - fought in to Howe's estate and freed Anora. The Crows were at least only dressed in light armour; at the estate we were up against well-armoured guards the whole way through. I think we had to kill about thirty or forty of them just to get to where Anora was, and then I forget how many more down in the dungeons."

Somehow the three of them ended up sitting on that hilltop for several hours after that, trading stories about memorable fights they'd been in, the wineskin going round and round. Right's two battles versus the entire Dust Town carta, Zevran's solo foray into Fort Drakon to rescue him and Alistair, Loghain's rescue by Rowan after decoying an entire army away from the rebel camp, and many other similar stories. They had to help each other walk when they decided it was time to return down to their camp; between the three of them they'd emptied the skin, and their legs no longer wanted to move in correct synchronization.

Loghain had vague memories of _singing_ as they stumbled their way back down the hill, though he couldn't have said later _what_ they'd been singing. He wasn't even sure if they were all on the same tune. He had an impression of Wynne sitting up and scowling in disapproval at them as they staggered into the clearing, the elf and dwarf dropping him somewhere near the fire before heading off to their own bedroll.

He also had the soundest night's sleep he'd had since before Ostagar, even the darkspawn dreams leaving him alone for once. It almost made it worth waking up to the worst hangover he'd ever had in his life.


	21. Reconciliations

As they drew in sight of Redcliffe the next day, it became obvious that joining the muster there wasn't going to be just a simple case of walking across the bridge to the castle, perched on its island offshore. A pall of smoke rose high into the sunny autumn sky, and as they drew closer they could see flames licking up from the town's buildings, hear distant sounds of battle. Slaughtered oxen were scattered across the road near a broken, overturned cart.

A fleeing survivor told them that darkspawn had arrived just that morning, and that most of the mustering forces and townspeople had fled, retreating into the castle. He then fled as well, moments before a small force of darkspawn crested the hill and swept them into battle.

"Check the town for any more survivors first, then the castle," Right said grimly once they'd cut down the initial rush. They worked their way down the slope to the town, encountering clots of darkspawn here and there on the way, as well as occasional bodies that made it clear that not all of the townspeople had escaped in time. It took them over an hour of intense rolling fights to clear the town, killing off genlocks, hurlocks, emissaries, even a pair of ogres, before Right was satisfied that they'd done what they could and led the way back up the hill and across the bridge to the castle.

The castle, too, was swarming with darkspawn, or at least its courtyard was, the portcullis not having been lowered in time to prevent their entry. They ended up in a ferocious pitched battle in the courtyard, the cobblestoned ground awash in tainted blood and bodies before they finally slaughtered the last of them.

A soldier clattered down the stairs and stopped in front of them. "My lord! You're here! Thank goodness!" he exclaimed.

"What's happened here?" Loghain demanded.

The man gave him a nervous look, then turned back to Right. "I don't rightly know. Riordan of the Grey Wardens arrived this morning just ahead of the darkspawn. I was told that he has urgent news, and to send out patrols to watch for your arrival. Then we were attacked..."

Right frowned. "Are Arl Eamon, and Anora and Alistair all right?" he asked. "Did any darkspawn get inside?"

The soldier nodded. "They're all inside with Riordan. Some darkspawn made it in, but we managed to kill them and close the doors. We were organizing to retake the courtyard when you and your companions arrived. You seem to have taken care of most of them out here. That's... rather remarkable, really..." he trailed off, then pulled himself back together. "Shall I take you inside?"

"Sure, lead the way," Right answered.

* * *

><p>Loghain tensed as they entered the castle. <em>Arl Eamon's<em> castle; he couldn't help but think of it as enemy territory, even if they were arguably on the same side now. The Great Hall, when they reached it, was packed with people, including numerous armed guardsmen and a force of dwarfs. The low platform at the far end of the hall hosted even more guards, as well as Riordan, Arl Eamon, Bann Teagan, Queen Anora, and Alistair. Loghain was only peripherally aware of any but Anora, his eyes glued to her face as he looked her over. She looked... well. Then her eyes met his, and a brief smile curved the corners of her lips, and he felt his own heart lift and ease. She _was_ well.

He glanced at Alistair, and met a hard, cold, disapproving glare from the man, and felt his own jaw clench tightly in response. Dressed in that infernal gold-washed armour of Cailan's, and with Maric's sword slung at his back, he looked so very much like and yet unlike the two of them. The boy bent down and whispered something to Anora, then left the room. Loghain noticed then the emblem on the shield he carried; the Grey Warden's griffon insignia. He snorted softly. For all the boy had claimed to be leaving the Grey Wardens forever, he still clearly clung to his memories of his time as one of them.

Riordan smiled warmly at Right as the pair of them approached. "It is a relief to see you unharmed," he said to him, then turned his welcoming smile on Loghain. "And you as well, Loghain."

"Yes. What a pleasure to see you again," Loghain said dryly, trying not to betray just how much the man's strong Orlesian accent was grating on his nerves.

Riordan and Eamon quickly brought them up to speed on the latest developments; the darkspawn that had attacked Redcliffe were but a tiny part of the horde, the main body of it was even now marching on Denerim, led by the archdemon. At the speed they were moving, there was no chance that the army gathered at Redcliffe could catch up to them shy of the city itself. Messages had been sent ahead to Denerim, but there was no time or way to evacuate it before the horde arrived, and not nearly enough soldiers there to defend it against the numbers marching against them.

Worse, they couldn't even march at once themselves; the army was in disarray after the unexpected darkspawn attack, and it would take the remainder of the day to sort them out and prepare for a forced march to Denerim. The next morning was the soonest they could move.

Riordan asked Right and Loghain to speak with him later, before retiring for the night, then the group of them split up to see what they could do to speed the reorganization of the army and make plans for their march.

* * *

><p>Loghain spent most of the day trailing in the diminutive warden's wake as Right visited and spoke with the leaders of the various factions making up the motley army he'd assembled, soothing ruffled feathers and calming shattered nerves. He had a surprisingly deft hand with diplomacy, and a real sense for how to approach people; blunt with his fellow dwarves, flowery phrases full of polite circumlocutions with the Dalish elves, warmly friendly and a patient listener with both the mages and their templar guardians.<p>

It was only as supper approached that Loghain left his side for a while, after a page sought him out to say that the Queen wished to speak privately with him for a time. Right nodded permission and smoothly went back to calming down the nervous templar captain he was speaking to at the time.

Loghain followed the page upstairs, to where the family quarters and the better guest suites were, and was led into his daughter's presence. Not entirely alone, he saw; Alistair stood in a corner of the room, still in full armour, gauntleted hands clasped in front of him and glaring fiercely at him. He barely glanced at him before sinking to one knee in front of Anora.

"My Queen," he said, voice husky with emotion.

"Oh, _father_," she said, softly. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do," he corrected her gently, before rising to his feet again.

She snorted. "_Sit_," she told him, and gestured at a chair set near to her own. "I wanted to see you, though _certain people_ advised against it. I had to speak quite firmly to the Arl, or he'd have seen you clapped into his dungeons the moment you crossed his threshold."

Loghain snorted. "I'd have liked to have seen him _try_," he said. "He has no authority over me, and the dwarf is rather fiercely protective of his companions."

"Right, not _the dwarf_," Alistair growled from his corner.

"Alistair," Anora said firmly. "You promised not to interfere."

Loghain turned his head to look coldly at the man. "It is meant in a purely descriptive sense, not a pejorative one, no more then if I referred to Arl Eamon as the Arl or you as the bastard."

That drew a snarl from Alistair, and he actually stepped forward, hand going to his sword hilt.

"_Alistair!_" Anora snapped. "Father, please do not bait Alistair."

"My point, my dear, is that I am _not_ baiting him. No more then I would be baiting you by calling you a headstrong woman or Bann Teagan by calling him an honourable man. It is a statement of _fact_, not a value judgement."

Alistair snorted, softly this time. "At least that's something we can both agree on." he said dryly.

"Which? That I am headstrong or that Teagan is honourable?" Anora asked him, and Loghain was surprised – and obscurely pleased – to hear a teasing note in his daughter's voice as she spoke to the man she was now promised to marry.

A brief smile crossed Alistair's face as he looked at Anora and answered. "Both," he said amiably.

In that moment, he looked so much like Maric and Cailan it took Loghain's breath away. _That smile_ – the Theirin charm, full-force. He had loved seeing Maric smile like that, relaxed and pleased and pleased with himself. "You are so very like him," he said softly, not even realizing he'd spoken the words aloud until Anora and Alistair both turned to look at him.

"Who? Cailan?" Anora asked.

"No. Maric. Cailan too, I suppose, but only in that Cailan so closely resembled his father," he told her, then eyed Alistair thoughtfully. "If he must be here – I presume to reassure your allies that I'm not going to cut your throat or something equally foolish – I don't suppose you can get him to stop _looming?_"

Anora laughed. "Alistair... please, sit," she said, smiling warmly at him and gesturing to the seat beside her.

Alistair frowned, but carefully lowered himself down beside her, gingerly careful of the upholstery.

"Speaking of cutting throats, Right had some interesting thoughts about Howe that he shared with me recently," he said, and quickly filled Anora in on Right's speculations about Rendon's possible designs on the throne.

Anora was nodding in agreement before the end. "It would certainly fit in with what I saw of him during those last few days," she said grimly. "I'm lucky the wardens rescued me; I'd been a fool to think I could manipulate _him_. I'm lucky he did nothing worse to me then lock me up," she added, face hardening. "I've read Ser Cauthrien's reports of what she found in the dungeons there."

Alistair's face hardened. "And she didn't see all of it, since we did rescue some of his victims on our way to finding Howe."

"Bann Sighard's son?" Loghain asked.

"Yes. Among others," Alistair agreed.

"I should have cut his lying throat when I returned from Ostagar. I almost did." Loghain said. "I actually had my sword drawn and at his throat. I think I will spend the rest of my life regretting that I didn't carry through on it then and there."

"What stopped you?" Alistair asked, surprised.

"His lies. He had documents – forged, I now believe – that made it seem as if the Couslands were part of a conspiracy to betray Ferelden to Orlesian rule. Aided in no small part by the Grey Wardens," he added dryly. "I... was not at my most rational after Ostagar," he said softly. "I fell for his lies because I _wanted _to believe them. Wanted to believe I had not failed my king."

"And now? How are you now, father?" Anora asked softly. "You look... better, then when I last saw you in Denerim."

He managed to smile for her. "I _am_ better. Being out and _doing_ is far easier for me to deal with then being trapped sitting behind a desk in the palace. And I have only one worry, one goal left now. To see this blight ended, by whatever means necessary."

"Another thing we can agree on," Alistair said softly, giving Loghain a look equal parts surprised and appraising.

He ate dinner with them. It was a quiet affair, Anora doing much of the talking, mainly inconsequential gossip about the doings of the nobles since the Landsmeet. Loghain studied Anora and Alistair as covertly as he could, and was pleased to see that there seemed to be some level of ease, of comfort, in the interactions between the two of them. He'd been worried how well she'd be able to handle it, being engaged to Cailan's brother, when she'd loved Cailan himself so much.

After the meal Alistair walked with him out of Anora's rooms. The boy was silent until they were well down the hallway from her door. "How is Right?" he asked finally, quietly.

Loghain glanced at him. "Well enough," he said. "Busy smoothing down people all day. Tired. He took the elf to meet his mother when we stopped over in Orzammar."

That won a smile from the boy. "He would. I wish I'd... no, never mind. I'd better go."

"Alistair..." he said, then stopped, not sure just what he'd wanted to say to or ask of the boy.

"What?" Alistair asked, warily.

"Nothing. Just... be well. You and Anora both."

Alistair looked searchingly at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "We will be, I think."

"Good," he said, and turned and walked away.

Even after hearing what Riordan had to tell them about why a Grey Warden was required to kill the archdemon, he slept remarkably well for the second night in a row.


	22. Conflict

Leaving the castle next morning was an exercise in frustration. Arl Eamon had never been involved in organizing the sort of large-scale movements of men that a real army required, having only been leader of a small group fighting to free Redcliffe after the worst of the Orlesian forces had already been driven from much of the remainder of the country. His lack of experience showed in how disorganized the departure of the army from the environs of the castle was; overseeing the muster should never have been left to him. Loghain cursed to himself, annoyed that he hadn't realized this was likely to be a problem and warned the dwarf ahead of time.

He glanced at Right. The dwarf was standing patiently, looking across the courtyard to where Arl Eamon was pontificating about something to Anora and Alistair, all three of them in armour, Anora and the Arl in red steel and Alistair again in Cailan's gold-washed set. And how long would it take for him to begin thinking of it as _Alistair's_ armour, rather than Cailan's, he wondered. Forever, at a guess.

"I hope your daughter isn't planning to fight," Right muttered softly.

Loghain snorted, relaxed slightly, thinking of how Anora used to regularly thrash Cailan when the two had sparred as teens, until his skills with a sword finally caught up to and surpassed hers. But then she'd always been better with a bow than a blade, a skill Cailan had been entirely hopeless with.

"No," he told the dwarf. "Though if a fight comes to her, she is at least able to defend herself; she is an adequate warrior. Or at least, she was when she was younger; I don't know how well she's kept up her skills since her teens. But she knows which end of a weapon to hold, and has some idea of what to do with the dangerous bits," he said dryly.

"Good," Right said, and turned his gaze back to Alistair, who was looking rather harassed.

Alistair looked up just then, and noticed the group of them. A brief look of longing that flashed across his face as he looked at each of them in turn, as if he wished he was over here, with them, instead of over there, with Anora and Eamon. Alistair frowned just slightly as his eyes rested for a moment on Loghain, then he looked at Right. A slight smile twitched the corners of his lips, and he mouthed something... "good luck", it looked like.

Right nodded in acknowledgement. Alistair returned his attention to whatever it was Eamon was saying to him and Anora.

"Come on, let's get a move on," Right said, sounding saddened.

They edged around to the bridge, and crossed over to the shore. It was as chaotic over there as the castle courtyard had been, though at least in a considerably more organized fashion, as the bands and troops of soldiers, dwarfs, elves, and mages who'd been encamped in the hills around Redcliffe pulled up stakes and started moving. Right had told him that even more would still be moving out from the Circle's tower, the Brecilian forest and Orzammar, headed to a secondary muster closer to Denerim since word of the end of the civil war spread. They would be a formidable army once it all met up.

* * *

><p>It was a long hard push to Denerim. They could see the smoke rising from the burning city long before the distant city itself came into view; the darkspawn had beaten them there by a sizable margin. The archdemon was visible at intervals, circling through the smoke and clouds, occasionally dipping down out of sight in the city as something somewhere in the streets below briefly caught its attention.<p>

Anora gave a rallying speech to the troops before they charged the final distance to the city. It was at least adequately done, though Loghain thought it would have been carried off better by a more martial figure; the bastard, or even Arl Eamon, who at least looked impressively military even if he barely knew which end of a ballista was the dangerous one.

Then the soldiers roared, and their charge began.

* * *

><p>It was a long, hard fight after that, beginning with clearing the gates so that they could enter the city. With all of the companions and the vanguard of the army, the task was easy, and all too soon it seemed it was time for Right to make the final selection of who would proceed into the city with him – Riordan had recommended using a small, fast-moving party rather than leading in the entire army, and Right agreed with with him.<p>

"Loghain, Zevran... Oghren," Right named who he would take along.

Riordan nodded solemnly. "Fair enough," he said. "Anyone else will need to remain here and assist in keeping more darkspawn from coming in the gates behind us. Who will lead them?"

"Sten would be suitable."

"Good. That should be sufficient," Riordan said, then took a deep breath, and smiled at all of them. "Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you face now. May the Maker watch over you," he said, then turned and moved off toward the smashed-open gates.

The companions stepped forward one by one, each taking the chance to say what might well be their final few words with the dwarf. None knew if they would survive this battle, who might still be standing when the archdemon was defeated. If the archdemon would even be defeated – there were no guarentees in this life, of that Loghain was sadly certain. Only... hope. And determination.

Finally Right turned to the group of them that would be accompanying him into the beleaguered city. "It will be an honour to fight with you by my side," he told the three of them.

Oghren snorted, then spoke softly, his voice intense. "Honour? Nobody's looked at me and seen honour in a long time, Warden. You took in a drunken disgrace of an Orzammar warrior. You gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep going. You helped me find the one woman in the sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could have someone new. I owe you a lot, Warden. I consider it a fine honour to die for you and your cause."

"Allow me to say that it has been a pleasure, my friend. Assassinating you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me," Zevran said, smiling warmly at Right. "By your side I would willingly storm the gates of the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it."

"Let's get this over with, then. There is little time to waste," Loghain pointed out, frowning in the direction Riordan had gone.

Right nodded, and led the way toward the gates. The gathered soldiers began to cheer and clap as the small group moved forward, then started to chant. "Grey Warden! The Grey Wardens! For Ferelden! Grey Wardens!" they heard over and over again, as they walked forward. As they neared the shattered gate they broke into a trot.

There was heard an excited barking behind them, and then Stench was running in their midst. Right frowned down at the hound, then unexpectedly smiled. "Glad to have you along," he told the hound as they jogged through the gate.

Loghain glanced down as well. He snorted, but a slight smile touched his lips. "It wouldn't be a proper Ferelden battle without a war hound somewhere in it," he observed dryly.

* * *

><p>After that, it was just slaughter, with occasional stops to bind their wounds, recover their breaths, eat a bite, rest briefly when what they most desperately needed was real sleep, real rest... but there could be no real rest while they fought their way into the very heart of a darkspawn horde.<p>

Genlocks, hurlocks, shrieks, ogres – darkspawn of all kinds and types fell beneath their blades, as the four – five, including the valiant hound – fought their way through the ravaged city. It hurt to see the state the city had already been reduced to in the comparatively brief time since the darkspawn had invaded its streets, many building in ruins, or flames, or both, entire districts of the sprawling city reduced to wastelands crawling with darkspawn and littered with corpses.

It would have killed Maric to see his capital reduced like this; even the war to oust the Orlesians had done nothing, compared to this wholesale destruction. It was half-killing _him_, to see the people he'd spent his life protecting, the city that had perforce become even more his home than his own Teryn of Gwaren, in such dire straits.

Grimly they fought on, through the burning ruins of the marketplace, though the comparatively untouched alienage, and onwards through the city, onwards and upwards. As they reached the courtyards surrounding the palace they chanced to witness Riordan's end, as he succeeded in forcing the dragon down on top of Fort Drakon, but only at the cost of his own life, falling from such a height that no man could possibly survive the fall.

Their own fight continued, through the winding courtyards and further up the hill, finally emerging into the courtyard fronting the fort itself.

The fighting there was especially dire. They almost lost, there, the companions falling one by one – first Zevran, crushed by an emissary's spell, then Loghain himself was felled minutes later by a second caster. Only later did he hear of the remainder of that battle, of Oghren falling after buying Right a precious respite from attack in his final moments, of Stench and Right fighting on alone until the dog was felled too, and the dwarf only barely managing to fell the final pair of opponents before himself collapsing unconscious. They were lucky that no reinforcements came upon them while they lay unconscious and unguarded.

The hound apparently roused first, more stunned than damaged from its vicious encounter with one of the pair of dragons that had made the courtyard such a slaughterhouse, and roused the dwarfs. It was a sore and tired party that eventually moved on, their wounds poulticed and bandaged, into the interior of the fort, as the long day slowly darkened towards evening, and night.


	23. An Ending

The fight up through the fort seemed to take forever. By now they were all tired, injured and sore, their resources depleted. More than once they had to stop and rest, recovering enough energy to push on down the next stretch of hallway, clear the next few rooms. Loghain felt numb from exhaustion.

Only a few moments of that long journey stood out to him; the great hall, dimly lit by fading sunlight steaming in the clerestory windows high overhead, where they were ambushed by a genlock mage commanding a small army of shades. Coming across a young dwarf apparently well known to Right and the others, standing bright-eyed and blank-minded in a room full of slain darkspawn, not a mark on him. Stopping to rest and eat in a chill, empty kitchen high in the tower, tearing into the recently baked bread, still soft and delicious, that would never be eaten by the soldiers it had been baked for. Slaying hordes of genlock archers, progressing carefully down hallways as Right and Zevran tiredly disarmed rows of traps – traps that might have been set by the soldiers as they were driven higher in the tower by the invading darkspawn, or worse yet set by some of the disturbingly intelligent darkspawn they'd encountered as they drew closer to the archdemon. Fighting past a pair of ogres and yet another caster, to reach at long last the final staircase, the final pair of doors.

"The roof is beyond that," Loghain said dryly, as they walked toward them. "And the archdemon. Are we all ready?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," Right said. He stopped a couple steps shy of the door, drew a flash from his belt and dripped poison along his blade, concentrating on the task as if it was the only important thing in the world, breathing slowly and evenly, snatching a last few seconds of rest before the final fight. Handed off the flask to Zevran, who solemnly did the same.

Loghain stood nearly motionless, just his hands moving, fingers curling and uncurling, staring in the direction of the doors with his eyes focused somewhere well beyond them. Oghren was going through a series of loosening-up motions, swinging his arms around, twisting his head from side to side, then produced a flask from somewhere – he always seemed to have a flask somewhere – and pulled the stopple, taking a deep drink, then reached out and knocked the flask against Loghain's breastplate.

Loghain looked down, surprised, then nodded and accepted it, took a deep swallow. Blinked, as the foul taste of dwarven ale, black and bitter and almost syrupy in its turgid sweetness, brought back a rush of memories. Maric, and that vile brew he'd insisted on always drinking the night before a battle. It was a tradition that his mother Queen Moira had supposedly started, apparently after being gifted with an entire keg of the terrible stuff by a dwarven merchant. Maker, he missed the man, and wished it was at his side he stood now, preparing for battle. His eyes prickled for a moment, forcing him to blink repeatedly until the feeling of pressure passed. He swallowed heavily and passed on the flask.

They all drank, the flask going around and around until it was empty, the thick liquid inside bringing a temporary rush of desperately-needed energy.

"Well," said Loghain tiredly. "Let's get this done."

Right nodded, and opened the doors.

* * *

><p>They emerged on the roof in time to see the archdemon killing the last of a group of soldiers that had somehow made it to the roof. It turned ponderously, one damaged wing trailing, and bellowed angrily at them.<p>

Loghain bellowed a challenge in return and charged toward it, his black locks blown back by the wind of its flapping wings. Oghren roared a challenge as well, every muscle and vein standing forth in sharp relief as he went into a berserker rage, and charged right behind him.

There were ballistae mounted here and there about the roof, meant to be a protection again ground-based attacks – from the top of the tower it was possible to fire on almost any position within the upper city – and Right sent Zevran scurrying to turn one on the archdemon, knowing the engine would do much greater damage versus the creature than their puny weapons could, if Zevran could manage to target and hit it. He was kept busy running from ballista to ballista, laboriously turning the heavy engines to target the archdemon, sometimes only able to get in two or three shots before it changed positions again.

The archdemon evaded them again and again; its torn wing prevented it from simply flying away, but at intervals it leapt into the air, moving well out of range of their weapons, spitting crackling floods of dark energy at them – not fire, not like the high dragon they'd killed before, but some dark tainted magic instead. As it roared and shrieked, lashed out at them, escaped from their reach again and again, hordes of darkspawn came to its defence. They flooded up every stairway, emerged from drains, some seeming to have scaled the very stones of the tower itself so unexpectedly did they appear. At times the group had to abandon the fight on the archdemon to deal with the hordes of darkspawn, or risk being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them.

Loghain battled on, _refusing_ to acknowledge the bone-deep exhaustion that was trying to slow his movements, weaken his blows, the near misses that left the skin of one side of his face tight, the braid on that side fraying apart, its tip burnt away from how close the raging not-fire of the demon's breath had come to him. Refusing to favour the one leg that was threatening to give away under him, the knee wrenched from a bad tumble when a glancing strike of the leading edge of its wing had sent him tumbling. Refusing to lower his shield, drop his sword, as tired muscles begged to do.

He hated this creature with a pure passion he had felt very few times in his life. When the Orlesians had held him and his father and made them _watch_ while they raped his mother to death, he'd felt this hatred. When his father had died beneath Orlesian blades, Loghain unable to go to his aid without forswearing his promise to protect this prince, he had felt this same helpless rage. When he'd realized that the elf woman, Katriel, had betrayed them and that West Hill was a lethal trap, Maric's life at risk, he's felt this same need to kill. When his king had died, leaving him behind... this despair, yes, that too, this _despair _that even now, with the beast in front of them, that they might still _fail_...

No. He would not, _could not_ fail again. Not now. He pushed aside the hatred, the rage, the despair, kept only the need to kill, the passion to avenge, to slay this damned creature before him, in any way possible. It was _necessary_ that this demon die. He stumbled forward in another loud-voiced charge, drawing the archdemon's attention to him yet again.

And then Oghren was clambering up its lengthy neck, laughing and cursing as he reached its head, clinging to the long scale-spines as it thrashed madly, trying to dislodge him. It tossed him free, into the air, made as if to catch him in its gaping mouth as he fell, but he switched ends in mid-air, giving a triumphant screech as he plunged down, his sword sinking deep into its neck, half-severing the spine.

It tumbled to the ground, body spasming, the dwarf rolling free to the side, still laughing.

They closed in on it then, warily. It was still alive, trapped in a body that no longer responded to its commands. Its hatred for them all was like a raging fire, a burning force the wardens could _feel_, like too-hot sunlight on already-sunburnt skin.

Oghren and Zevran dropped back as Loghain and Right continued a few steps further forward, Oghren finally falling silent as the tension of the two Grey Wardens became evident.

"This is my job," Loghain said softly. "I have done... so much wrong. Allow me to do one last thing right." He glanced down at Right, a faint smiled quirking one corner of his lips for just the briefest of moments. "Besides, I doubt your elven friend would allow me to live much beyond you, if I allowed you to take the final blow."

Right inhaled deeply, nodded. Accepted that this final blow was Loghain's due. "I salute you, Loghain, for what it's worth," he said, voice hoarse, suiting actions to words.

Loghain nodded, then turned and faced the archdemon, looking at it. He cast his mind back over the years, to better times, to the loved ones he still yearned to see. "Rowan," he whispered. "_Maric_."

Then he began to run, long legs eating up the distance between him and the dragon. His arm swept out, scooped up a sword in passing – a great two-handed sword, not his usual one-hander. The dragon struggled to lift its head, roaring its fury as the man flew toward it.

There was one name left to remember. One loved one still to claim. One more person to yearn for, to mourn forever the passing of. "_**Cailan!**_" he screamed, voice torn and raw with the force of his shout.

And then he was dropping low, sliding on his knees across the pavement, sword upraised, slashing open the beast's throat from jaw nearly to breastbone. Its head reared back, a gruesome bubbling sound emerging from the slashed ruin of its throat, then fell heavily to the stone. He pushed himself slowly to his feet, raised the sword in both hands, and plunged it into its skull.

Power surged into him, dark and malevolent, a force of seething darkness and bitter acid, jealousy and greed, and a lust for power and a yearning for the death of all things so powerful it shook him to his very bones. It filled him, overfilled him, more than could be contained in the fragile shell of a human body. He felt as if something tore inside him, a vast ripping that seemed to go on forever. The darkness poured through the rip, going... elsewhere. Into oblivion, if the feeling of endless screaming denial as it streamed away was any guide.

And then there was light. Light that roared like thunder, a beam of it exploding upwards, a silver spear that lit up the clouds and the embattled city below like daylight, casting harsh shadows. He stood at its core, body arched backward in exquisite agony, light streaming over the body of the dragon, streaming _from_ it, from him as well, emerging from every seam of armour, from every pore of skin. Light, exploding outwards in a shockwave, as Grey Warden and what was left of a god merged.

Joy, as it too streamed away, joy and a yearning for wholeness, and a vast relief as its waning power left the mortal plane for whatever place it truly belonged. Then it too was gone at last, leaving him empty and shattered.

And then came quiet darkness, and welcoming hands as he finally put down his long burden.


End file.
